Harry Potter and the Vanquisher of Heaven and Hell
by CaptainPumpkinPie
Summary: Harry's fifth year is turned upside down by the Sorting Hat's song and a new prophecy. To make matters worse, Voldemort has obtained a dark and other-wordly power that drags Harry onto a path of deceit and inhumanity he cannot step off of. Eventual H/Hr
1. The Excerpt

An excerpt from The Dark Lord Voldemort's personal journal, September, 1995:

_When I had chosen to become strong . . . to be great . . . I did not fear any higher power. I would be immortal. Why would I take into account God or Satan, when I would never die? Here in the mortal world, I am untouchable. How could an agent of Death reach me in the realm of the Living? If I am destined never to walk across the clouds in Heaven or the sands of Hell, than what force should I cower before?_

_No. In the ethereal worlds, the Almighty and Lucifer may reign like kings. But here, upon this earth, no one can challenge my strength. _I _am the highest power here. I am like a god myself. No. I _am_ a god. _

_That was how I thought, before they came to me. The angels of God, come down from on high to warn me. "Your actions will soon become irreversible. All hope of salvation will be lost. Turn from this path of evil, Tom Marvolo Riddle, before it is too late."_

_Can you envision my amazement? There in front of me, creatures so alien to this world. And they had powers unimaginable. Great white wings, that carried them effortlessly. Magic that could make my own look almost mediocre. I could tell we were cousins of sorts. The angels of God may have been the ancestors of wizards, perhaps. _

_But I did not fear them. I was immortal; my Horcruxes were safely hidden. So I called upon my darkest powers and struck down their leader. They fled like startled rats, and so I took the ethereal corpse and began to study it. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Inside of its body, there was nothing but golden blood, pure magic coursing through millions of veins. And its wings? They were much like those of earth creatures, though after careful observation, I realized that every vessel in the angel took the golden blood to the place where wings met flesh. _

_Obviously, the angels of God expended great amounts of magic to allow themselves to fly. Can you imagine? Such power, such vigor! I wanted it. So I drank a goblet of that golden blood. The consequences would have been deadly, had I not been immortal. Confined to my bed chambers for two months, I recovered, and I thought. Why could I not consume the blood of an angel? Because it was not of this world?_

_The answers to my questions came seven days after I healed. This time, fallen angels in the army of Lucifer visited me. They were mirror images of the Almighty's charges. Their wings were black as the night sky; they radiated darkness the way God's angels gave off light. And they had a proposition: "You are clearly a man of cunning and ambition, worthy of being at the right hand of our Lord," they had hissed in voices of malice. "Come, and rule under Lucifer for the rest of eternity. Immortality would be yours."_

_"I will join if you answer me this: Why can I not drink the blood of God's angels?" It was a lie. As I have said, I already had immortality. And I did not want to be second-best in Hell. I would rather be first and foremost on Earth._

_The fallen told me that the evil inside of me rejected the purity of their brothers. So I killed their leader, and commanded the devils to return to Hell and never enter my realm again. _

_I compared the angel and the devil, but found they were nearly the same in anatomy. However, the blood of the fallen was like ink, darker than tar. After much preparation, I raised a goblet of devil's blood to my lips and drank. _

_The effect . . . I cannot describe. The magic in the black blood was dark and evil; it filled my core and sealed out light. But I did not care. I was stronger than ever. My spells became deadlier and more destructive. I was truly a god. _

_And now? I train. I will take this world in my fist and clutch it to my breast, and it will be forever mine. None shall challenge my authority. Not even Harry James Potter._

_Soon, he would be dead, and Dumbledore would be dead, and I would be Lord Voldemort, God of this Earth, Vanquisher of Heaven and Hell. _


	2. The Sorting Hat's Song

Harry Potter stared out at the deserted Platform Nine and Three Quarters forlornly. It was barely eight-thirty in the morning, but there he was, lounging on a bench with his trunk at his feet, Hedwig hooting next to him from inside her cage. He wouldn't have been so early if Uncle Vernon hadn't had a business meeting scheduled at exactly eleven o' clock ― the precise time he was supposed to board the Hogwarts Express. On his way to a far-off city Harry couldn't remember the name of, Vernon Dursley had abandoned his nephew at the station without so much as a grunt.

Harry hadn't honestly expected it; this was a downright low for his uncle, who would at least have told him to keep all of his freakishness at his damn school and not to tread it in his house when term was over. The boy was so early that the scarlet steam engine hadn't even arrived yet.

Trying to direct his thoughts in more pleasant places, Harry looked down at the crimson-and-gold prefect's badge in his hand. Another thing he hadn't anticipated. When Hermione had owled him that she'd been chosen as a prefect, he'd barely batted an eye. The second position for a fifth year prefect would surely be filled by someone responsible, not a rule breaker like him or Ron. Maybe Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas. Even Neville. But not _him_. He was . . . he was Harry Potter, the boy who found ways to cause trouble that baffled most people when they heard about his antics.

Sirius had been proud, but slightly disappointed that his "little Marauder" was a prefect. Fred and George had been quite disgusted. "A prefect is no friend of ours," they'd written in a short, angry letter. "Please do not make our acquaintance when we get to school or something worse than a Ton-Tongue Toffee will be mixed in with your pudding at dinner." Harry wasn't sure if they were kidding yet.

The first people to arrive at King's Cross appeared to be a cluster of nervous first year students and their parents. Harry had never noticed how fidgety the first years were; all of them fiddled anxiously with their trunks or held tightly to their mother's hands. He idly wondered if he'd looked like that a few years back.

Upperclassmen began to trickle in among the younger set at half past ten. This group was a startling contrast to the first years, with their confident airs and booming laughs. Old friends slapped each other on the backs. They clambered into the same carriages they'd ridden their entire time at Hogwarts, brushing off overbearing mothers and whining siblings. It occurred to Harry then that he'd been sitting on the bench for almost two hours. The train would be leaving soon.

The bespectacled boy clambered off of the cold bench and edged through the crowd of family members. Familiar faces greeted him as he fought a path to the Hogwarts Express, the air above him fogged with thick purple smoke billowing from the steam engine. He'd yet to see Ron or Hermione, though he'd caught a glimpse of Ron's sister Ginny.

It took several minutes' shoving and struggling to reach the prefects' car towards the front of the train. Harry could already tell it was made for the Hogwarts elite. Twice the size of a normal carriage, each of its four walls was hung with specific House colors. The floor was padded with a plush back carpet bearing the Hogwarts emblem. A modest crystal chandelier sent flecks of light dancing across the faces of those inside, especially those seated in the Slytherin color-adorned section across from the side entrance of the car. Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass, the two fifth-year prefects of Salazar's house.

They sneered at him as he hefted his trunk and Hedwig into the car. In an effort to ignore them, Harry scoped out the other fifth year prefects. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot waved cheerfully at him from the benches on either side of the door he'd just entered. Turning around, he saw the wall behind him was decorated in the yellow-black Hufflepuff scheme. The side of the carriage that led out into the rest of the train had the blue-and-bronze details of Ravenclaw.

Harry threw himself down on a section of the padded Gryffindor bench. Only one other prefect was seated, a sixth year girl engrossed in something she was writing. Hermione and Angelina Johnson (the only other Gryffindor students he knew that had access to the prefects' car) weren't present. Quidditch captains like Angelina were allotted all of the same privileges as the prefects, which explained why the brutish captain of the Slytherin House team, Graham Montague, was lounging on the Slytherin bench.

Just as he was standing to go find Ron, the whistle blew outside. A handful of prefects entered the car. Angelina and Hermione were in the midst of the newcomers, engaged in a heated debate about the importance of having two Bludgers. "Honestly, I'm sure one would do the trick," argued Hermione. "They cause enough damage as it is; a Hufflepuff Beater had a concussion for twelve days last year when he missed the Bludger."

"Well, if he'd been properly trained, he'd never have missed," Angelina countered. "Anyways, you can't play Quidditch and not expect to get a little roughed up."

"If I could put a word in?" Harry asked politely as they approached. "We need two Bludgers, because it doubles the chance of someone falling off their broom and making the going easier for the opposing team. Oh, and it's really funny when they get hit."

"Harry, really, that's such a nasty thing to wish on someone," Hermione began. Then she seemed to register his presence. "Harry!"

He disentangled himself from her vice-like launch-hug. "You know, if they allowed tackling on the pitch, I'd recommend you for the team." He winced and rubbed his rib cage. "Bruised the lungs a bit there."

"Shut up," she chastised, stowing her trunk under the seat. The train lurched forward suddenly, and she tumbled ungracefully onto the bench.

Harry made a _tsk-tsk _sound. "But if you go tipping off your broom, you won't do much damage . . . unless you land on the other team, we could work with that. . . ."

Hermione threw him a nasty look and worked on righting herself. A pretty blonde with a Head Girl badge on the front of her robes stood from the Ravenclaw section, motioning for their attention. The Head Boy, from Slytherin, waited quietly behind her. "All the new prefects, listen up," she said in a clear voice. "For now, you just need to patrol the corridors and watch out for misbehaving students, that kind of thing. But when we get to Hogwarts, there are a lot of things to go over. Dante?"

Dante, the Head Boy, addressed the prefects with a wave, brushing his copper-colored hair aside. "On the first day, you'll all be responsible for escorting the students to their respective House common rooms. During Halloween, Christmas, and other holiday events, you'll be expected to assist in decorating the castle. You have to walk the corridors at night at least twice a week to keep an eye out for students out of bed. As far as taking points goes, you may only deduct points from your own House, though detentions may be issued to any student if their infraction is serious."

The Head Girl spoke up. "And don't forget that your duties are year-round. Keep your eyes trained, because if we notice that you're not doing a good job, your badge could be revoked. With that said, I want the fifth year prefects to take the end of the train, sixth years to take the middle, and seventh years will take the front. We'll watch Car Seven." She shuddered, and Dante grimaced. "The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan are in there. . . ."

The prefects poured out into the corridor, older students taking up positions immediately. Harry and Hermione followed Ernie and Hannah to the back of the train, with Padma Patil and Michael Corner, the Ravenclaw prefects, at their backs. Malfoy and Daphne took up the rear.

"Let's go find Ron," Harry suggested as the last carriages came into view. "I haven't heard from him since a few weeks ago, when I told him I'd made prefect."

"He stopped writing me, too. Maybe Pig's hurt."

Harry nodded. "I thought so. Come on, he's probably in the back."

The end of the corridor loomed. They found Ron in the last car on the left, Neville Longbottom and a blonde girl reading a magazine also seated with him. Ron had a bored, almost sour expression on his face. His eyes were fixed on the blur of the countryside passing the train.

Neville smiled at them when they entered and continued to prod at a small plant, one that resembled a Venus Fly Trap. It opened its jaws and flashed an array of blue tentacles in place of teeth. Seeing an opportunity, Neville jammed a gooey substance in the plant's mouth. The tentacle mouth snapped shut. "Feeding this thing is a nightmare," Neville muttered, sweeping his hand across his sweaty forehead.

The blonde girl looked up from her copy of the _Quibbler _and said in a dreamy voice, "You must be Harry Potter. They talk about you a lot, you know. I'm Luna Lovegood." Her eyes drifted back to the newsprint and, for some strange reason, Harry decided not to pursue more conversation with Luna Lovegood.

"Ron? Earth to Ron?" said Hermione.

The redhead slowly turned to address them. "Well, look who decided to show up. Forgot about me, did you?"

Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "If you've got a problem, we'd love to hear it."

Glaring, Ron stood and joined them in the corridor, shutting the door behind them.

"Please. You didn't spare a thought of me when you two were all cushy in the prefect carriage," snarled Ron. "Doesn't matter. You don't care."

"Of course we care ―" Hermione began.

"Save it! It's like this all the time, you two are the stars and I'm just ― just that Weasley kid, nothing special! I'm not smart like Hermione, a hero like Harry, I'm nothing to look at. And I'm tired of being in the shadow of the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and brightest witch of our bloody age!"

Harry and Hermione stared mutely at Ron. His breathing was heavy, his ears bright red. Before they could argue, Ron spun on his heel and slammed the carriage door in their faces.

Hannah Abbot came up to them with an apologetic expression on her face. "Are you having another row with Ronald? I hope it's not like last year again; you wouldn't even look at each other."

Harry blinked several times. Finally realizing what Ron felt being around them had been a rude awakening, to say the least. Hermione was still staring blankly at the door.

"Er, no. Ron's just being a huge prat." Anger began to take over the shock. "And he can be a huge prat all he wants. Not my problem."

"Oh. Bye, then." Hannah gave them a quizzical glance and started back down the corridor.

The rest of the train ride was awkward. The Hufflepuff prefects had been kind enough to watch the area around Ron's carriage, though the tension lingered. Their only distractions were telling off a pair of Gryffindor third years who'd been setting off Dungbombs in a Slytherin car (Hermione had taken two points from each of them, but as she'd walked away, Harry had congratulated them and given back the points) and skirmishes with Malfoy and Daphne.

"Potter? _Potty wee Potter_? And _Granger? _Who made them prefects?" Malfoy said loudly to his partner. "Probably Dumbledore, you know him. Can't get enough of those half-rate heroes and Mudbloods."

"Why don't you shut it, Malfoy?" said Harry, hand already at his wand. Hexing Malfoy would be the perfect way to blow off steam. . . .

The blonde sneered. "Who's going to make me, Potter? You wouldn't risk your pretty little prefect title jinxing me, would you? Of course not, you grab every bit of glory and power you can get your hands on."

Daphne Greengrass, the girl with long red-blonde hair, rolled her eyes. "Don't waste your breath on them, Draco." She stalked off down the corridor.

Malfoy backed up after him. "You'd better watch your back, Potter, you and your little girlfriend. Things are going to be different this year, you'll see! Ha!"

Harry followed the sleek blonde head with his eyes before leaning against the wall and exhaling through his nose. "Honestly, I never would have guessed the first day would be a bomb before we even _got_ to school."

It felt like the train took years to get to the Hogsmeade station. The platform was crowded, as it was smaller than the platform at King's Cross, and rain poured down in sheets around the students. Harry wanted nothing more than to be lounging in the Gryffindor common room with his stomach full of the welcoming feast's cooking.

They could hear Hagrid calling the first years over the downpour, though his profile was lost in the gloom. Harry and Hermione managed to squeeze into a carriage with Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown. It was so dark and rainy that Harry almost smacked into the door. He could hardly see a foot in front of him.

The ride to school was bouncy and uncomfortable; everyone seemed to be waiting for the feast. Harry found that four people and four trunks did not fit well in a small, invisibly maneuvered buggy. The golden glow coming from the distant windows of Hogwarts castle looked more magical than anything taught inside the building.

The sweeping drive began to wind down. Splashes of water sprayed Harry, Hermione, Dean, and Lavender as they climbed out of their carriages and trotted up the great stone steps. The oak front doors were cracked open. Inside, Professor McGonagall could be seen herding first years into a line, preparing them for the Sorting Ceremony.

The Great Hall was exactly the way Harry remembered it. Flickering candles drifted along over their heads, while golden plates and goblets gleamed along the packed House tables. The Gryffindors fought their way to the far side and sat down with their House mates. Harry caught sight of Ron in the middle of the table, with Seamus Finnigan on one side and Neville on the other. Dean joined them.

_Great_, Harry thought bitterly. _He's probably turning all the fifth years against me. Lovely._

Hermione noticed him glowering at the redhead. "Ignore him, Harry. He's acting very immature," she sniffed, dropping into the very corner seat. Harry sat down across from her and silently willed the food to appear on his plate, partly because he was starving but mostly so he'd have an excuse not to speak.

The ghost of Gryffindor House, Nearly Headless Nick, floated over and bowed. This was not the most logical of decisions; the motion allowed his partially severed head to slip out of its ruff and fall limply onto his shoulder. Harry barely stifled a chuckle.

"Yes, yes, it's very funny," Nick grumbled, righting his head on his transparent shoulders. "The Sorting is beginning," he said haughtily, then set off to the other side of the Hall.

"Oh, I think you offended him," said Hermione, with a mock-serious expression. She let a giggle escape.

The room grew quiet as the line of first years appeared at the top of the Hall. Professor McGonagall moved forward and set the wooden stool down on the ground, then placed the leathery Sorting Hat on top of it. The brim of the hat opened wide and the first notes of the song rang clear:

_There was a time, so long ago,_

_When Hogwarts was brand new,_

_And the four founders made a hat,_

_For sorting all of you._

_Brave Gryffindor commanded me,_

"_Choose only the most bold,"_

_So I picked those of chivalry,_

_To welcome to the fold._

_The most patient and true children,_

_Were found in Hufflepuff,_

_Their loyalty was legend,_

_And they never did play rough._

_Those of unmatched wit and brains,_

_Ravenclaw did select,_

_With little care for sport and mirth,_

_They prized their intellect._

_And finally, I come to this,_

_That House of Slytherin,_

_Where those of purest ancestry,_

_Meet others with ambition._

_Among these old walls of Hogwarts _

_Four Houses still unite,_

_To fill their heads with useful smarts,_

_And enrich the world of Light._

_But we all are in grave danger,_

_Never ignore this fact,_

_A storm of evil brews close by,_

_Now take up thy wand, act! _

_This warning I shall give you:_

_Though not without a price,_

_For when the dark ones come to us,_

_The losses won't be nice._

A silence like a graveyard at midnight fell over the students then. Expressions of shock and fear were penciled all over the children's faces, though there was no sound. Even staff members had their mouths hanging open.

Slowly, Professor Dumbledore stood from his spot at the head table, crimson robes swirling around him. The silver suns embroidered in the fabric reflected the light from the candles. His withered hands came together and clapped, like booming thunder in the quiet. "Professor McGonagall?" he said politely.

The Deputy Headmistress unrolled her scroll and began to read.

"Ashwell, William!"

A trembling boy, soaked through with rain water, skipped over to the stool and jammed the Sorting Hat upon his head.

As William was Sorted into Ravenclaw, Harry glanced back at Hermione. She had somehow conjured a scrap of parchment and a quill and was furiously scribbling the Sorting Hat's song upon it.

"What was that all about?" he whispered.

"Malfoy was right," she answered cryptically. "Things are going to be _very _different this year."

The Sorting was quick after that, and soon Professor Dumbledore was standing in front of them with a composed expression. His silver beard was braided with red and purple beads. Another silence fell in preparation ― no one spoke during the Headmaster's extraordinary speeches.

"I have little to say to you, except welcome to our first years, welcome back to our veteran students, and farewell to our seventh years. I trust you all had a restful holiday? Wonderful! The time for relaxation has passed, dear students. For those taking their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams, the academics will be rigorous.

"But that is not our greatest worry, for as you know, Lord Voldemort has returned."

The titters and whispers ceased. Harry winced, but not because Dumbledore said the Dark Lord's name; it was because instantly, heads swiveled around to stare at him.

"I fear that the Sorting Hat was referring to Voldemort's return in its song, and just this can I tell you: stand strong. Only the combined power of all you students can keep the Death Eaters back. When our school sings its battle cry, heed the Hat! Raise your wands against the enemy, and defend Hogwarts. And in turn, Hogwarts will defend you."

On that last puzzling note, Dumbledore spread his hands. The four tables were instantly laden with food, but for a strange, synchronized moment, no one reached for a pitcher; there was a shivering stillness. Then Fred Weasley roared, "HUZZAH!" and the students thawed. Harry slowly loaded his plate, but the Headmaster's words buzzed around in his head, then dripped down his throat, and finally sank heavily to the bottom of his stomach like lead weights.


	3. The Seventh Floor

Ron was still avoiding him like the plague. He had taken to sitting with Dean and Seamus, and the empty chair at Harry and Hermione's end of the Gryffindor table felt very empty indeed. Some of the teachers had noticed; Harry had already seen a raised brow from McGonagall, a tut from Sprout, and an "Oh?" from Flitwick.

"Harry, can you pass the pumpkin juice?" Parvati Patil asked from a few seats down. He nodded and handed it to her, eyes focused on the schedule Professor McGonagall had distributed when they'd arrived for breakfast. At first glance Harry was positive this school year would be disastrous.

"Double Potions on Wednesday and Friday," he complained to Hermione, who was also perusing her courses. "It'll be a nightmare."

"Ugh! Double Ancient Runes, every Thursday! I'll fail!" Genuine panic began to filter into her voice.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You'll do fine, just like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that."

"But it's O.W.L. year! Oh, our classes will be so difficult, what if I don't have time to study . . . ," she trailed off, muttering about how early the library closed and when she would find the time to write up new study schedules for them.

"I've got Divination before lunch. You have Arithmancy, right?"

Hermione shook her head, rolling her timetable up and stowing it in her bag. "No, I dropped the course. Professor McGonagall recommended me for her Alchemy class."

"That's a N.E.W.T. level course!" exclaimed Harry.

"Hey, look at this," Neville said from Harry's left. He slid his own timetable over, finger hovering near Tuesday's Defense Against the Dark Arts. "See that? They changed the room."

"Yeah . . . the new classroom's on the seventh floor. Wonder why." The lightning-scarred boy shook his head and hitched his school bag over his shoulder. "Let's just go, we've got Herbology with the Hufflepuffs in a minute."

Hermione was very right about the challenge that was O.W.L. year. For the first half of class, Professor Sprout stood in front of her students and explained the level of dedication required to move on to advanced courses. Harry could almost see the poor marks that were destined to come to him.

Care of Magical Creatures, at least, was the same as ever. Hagrid read off a list of the advanced monsters he planned on leasing on them. Harry heard sphinxes, the Giant Squid, and griffins, which was plenty enough to make him fear for his life.

They spent their half hour break in the library, researching the Sorting Hat. The song from the day before was still burned in his brain. Hermione had told him that the Sorting Hat, according to _Hogwarts, A History_, often added a prophetic message when danger was near. This didn't comfort him in the slightest. The song was obviously warning them about Voldemort, and telling them to fight back.

"Look here," said Harry, a copy of _Magical Artifacts of Hogwarts Castle_ in his hand._ "'The Sorting Hat, possibly the most famous and complex resident of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was created to place students in their ideal Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. However, Rowena Ravenclaw had enchanted the Hat to do much more than that. The Sorting Hat is said to have Seer-like qualities courtesy of the Ravenclaw House founder, allowing it to foresee future events more accurately than any human or centaur alive. No one has ever been able to persuade the hat to release its information, except for its start-of-term song.'"_

Hermione frowned. "More accurately than anyone?"

"I think," said Harry slowly, "that the Sorting Hat knows exactly what's going to happen. Maybe we can sneak into Dumbledore's office and talk to it !"

"Weren't you listening?" She sat down at their secluded table and pulled the book towards her. "It says no one's ever gotten it to speak about what it Sees. We'll have to do this blind, it looks like."

Harry crossed his arms. "'We?' No way. This is my fight. I couldn't live with myself if you, or Neville, or R ― if anyone got hurt." He'd almost said Ron's name, which would have made Hermione think that he still cared about the redheaded git, which he _didn't_.

"You need to talk to him," she urged, catching what Harry had been about to say. "He's just jealous, like last year, he can't help it. He's your best mate, Harry. You can't shut him out like this."

"He's shutting me out! I never said anything to him; he's just being a prat."

Hermione sighed and waved her wand, sending the several books they'd found back to their shelves. "Fine, fine."

As Hermione headed off to Alchemy in the Transfiguration courtyard, Harry took the long staircases up to the North Tower for Divination. The silver stepladder greeted him on his way up to Professor Trelawney's classroom. The wave of incense and candles hit him hard; he instantly felt sleepy. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil sat eagerly at their front-row table. He trudged to the back and threw his bag down on his table, sinking into a fluffy armchair.

Ron and Seamus came up the ladder, squeezing into the table next to Harry's. Harry kept his eyes focused on a large red candle.

Professor Trelawney was the last to emerge from the floor below, her magnified eyes startling them all. The many beads and bangles she coordinated into her outfit jingled loudly as she swept into the classroom. "Students! I have foreseen . . . such tragedy, such sadness. All within this class. It comes from . . . you!" She swiveled suddenly and jabbed a ringed finger in Harry's direction. "You, boy! The angst, the pain, the malice! It seeks you!"

Harry rolled his eyes but said nothing. Professor Trelawney's barely masked death threats had become stale.

The subject of the day's lesson was how to enhance one's Inner Eye, and Harry wanted nothing more than to escape. Before the class was half over, they had already consumed gooey, revolting teas (said to clear out the Inner Eye, though they were so nasty Harry thought they would clear out everything in his stomach), massaged the area around their gallbladders (to allow positive energy to flow easier) and breathed in thick pink smoke that was supposed to relieve their minds of Earthly matters (unfortunately, it only made Harry think of unicorns and muffins for whatever reason). He nearly threw himself down the ladder when the bell rang for lunch.

He met up with Hermione at the Gryffindor table and asked about her Alchemy class. She promptly rolled into a long, complicated explanation about containing magic and allowing it to surge into certain areas of something called a transmutation circle, but it seemed much too difficult to understand, so he tuned her out a bit and helped himself to onion soup.

Harry and Hermione walked around the Lake for their afternoon break, arguing about the Sorting Hat. "If we can convince it how much I need to know what's going on, I'm sure it'll help." He sighed loudly. "We've got to at least try."

She made a face and watched the Giant Squid gurgle happily in the cool waters of the lake. "I don't know . . . How would you get inside Dumbledore's office in the first place?"

"The password's always some kind of sweet," said Harry. "I could probably guess."

"But when would you get in there? The Headmaster would probably notice if we walked in and had a chat with the Sorting Hat."

"We'll just have to wait for the situation to arise," he replied patiently.

History of Magic and Charms passed quickly. Hermione took detailed notes while Professor Binns droned on, and she urged Harry to take notes as well: it was O.W.L. year, after all. He ignored her and continued to doodle on a scrap of parchment. In Charms, Professor Flitwick had them practicing the Hover Charm and other simple spells as review.

The Gryffindor common room was full of students just coming up from dinner, though it was quiet. Most of the Gryffindors were talking softly or working on the large load of work the professors had assigned them as a "welcome back" present. Harry was content to lounge in an armchair by the fire, wondering who the new DADA professor would be (no one knew had been seen at the staff table) and where he could get some more pink smoke, which he had found very relaxing.

He saw Ron by himself, cleaning his chess set with a cloth. Harry knew what Hermione would say if she were around. _Go talk to him, he's not busy! _He groaned to himself and crossed the common room to where Ron was sitting.

"Hey."

Ron slowly looked up, face hard as stone. The cloth dropped out of his hand. "What do you want?"

"Well, Hermione's been bugging me lately ― you know how she can be," said Harry, deciding the "common enemy" (Hermione) tactic might make the Weasley less cold towards him. "Says I should make up with you.

"But, see, the funny thing is, I don't know what to apologize for."

Ron was surprised by these words; the witty remark he'd been preparing died on his lips. "I . . . I don't know, either."

"Then everything's right with the world," Harry proclaimed, clapping Ron on the shoulder and wondering if they were friends again, or if he'd made things worse. But after a while, when Ron was heading up to bed, he paused at the door of the staircase and said, "'Night, mate," to Harry. The bespectacled boy saluted him and flipped open _Quidditch through the Ages_.

There was an air of excitement among the fifth year Gryffindors at breakfast ― they had Defense Against the Dark Arts next, and they were all eager to see who was teaching and what the classroom would look like. Other students had kept their lips sealed, and left the rest of the school in the dark as far as what the class was like.

Hermione was thrilled that her two best friends had made up, kind of. There was still a lingering friction between the three, and something felt different within the trio. Words had been said that wouldn't be forgotten.

The seventh floor was one of Harry's least favorite places at Hogwarts. It seemed to enjoy playing tricks on the few people that came up, most likely because of the scarce witnesses. Just the year before, the highest floor of the castle had baffled Harry. He remembered walking down an empty corridor when he heard footsteps close behind. When he looked, no one was following him, and in an even more confusing instance, as he turned to face forward, a brick wall suddenly stood in his path as if it had always been there. Panicked, he noticed another brick wall behind, him trapping him. Then, when he closed his eyes to try and think of a plan, the walls vanished and nothing peculiar happened for the rest of his stay on the seventh floor.

The other students seemed to know about the oddities that occurred there as well, because they were moving in tightly knit packs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione brought up the rear.

The seventh floor, they had to admit, was very tasteful. The walls and floors were made of a pretty, sandy stone, occasionally marred by a decorative portrait or tapestry. Their classroom door was flanked by marble statues of dragons. The rubies that were their eyes glinted brightly.

"Here goes," said Ron ominously, and he followed the other Gryffindors inside.

The classroom was unlike any he'd ever seen. It was long and narrow, with an equally long and narrow stage running from a few steps ahead of them toward the far wall. Chairs were lined up along the length of the stage. Across the classroom, the stage ended in a large square platform, where a desk and chair overlooked the rest of the room. Their professor smiled at them all.

"Professor _Dumbledore_?" Hermione whispered in shock.

The wizened man, still smiling, rose from his desk and strode to the middle of the stage. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts," he told them. "Please, take a seat."

The Slytherins, who also had DADA with them, arrived then. The Gryffindors instantly filed into the chairs on the left side of the classroom. Once the Slytherins sat down along the right side, the Headmaster spoke.

"This year, with the threat of Lord Voldemort close at hand, I have decided it would be best for the 'Only Man He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Ever Feared' to instruct you all on how to duel. The impostor Bartemius Crouch Jr. did well, but every student in Hogwarts must now be able to defend themselves in case of attack. That is why all students in their fifth year and above will be taking this dueling class and completing the Apparition course in March."

Harry paled. He knew he'd take the Apparition test, but he had always thought he'd take it in his sixth year. Apparition was very difficult, and very dangerous.

Dumbledore looked over the students and smiled. "I see you have sat with your Housemates, in a typical Gryffindor-Slytherin fashion. But it will make our time here simpler. Please select one student from each House, and a second for each student. I would like to observe how well you duel."

Instantly, the Slytherins looked to Malfoy. Harry wasn't surprised. He'd heard the way Malfoy talked to anyone that would listen; he constantly bragged about his dueling capabilities. The Slytherin prefect wore a look of determination as he climbed onto the stage and drew his wand. His second, Blaise Zabini, held his wand in his fist and waited patiently.

The Gryffindors were less organized. Many wanted to hop onto the stage and fight because of their, well, _Gryffindor-ness_. A few had urged Harry to "beat Malfoy into the ground" and others were casting sidelong glances at him. Ron ever-so-kindly ignored his protests and shoved him onto the stage. On his way up, Harry glared at Ron and spitefully chose Hermione as his second (the person that would take over if he were killed, which didn't seem very likely).

As Hermione and Zabini stood at the foot of the stage, facing Dumbledore's platform, Malfoy and Harry listened to the Headmaster's instructions. "Excellent. A most predictable pairing." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he moved back to his platform and sat down. "I will remind you that there are no seriously damaging spells allowed. Now bow to your opponent and commence."

Harry and Malfoy bowed, eyes trained on each other. Malfoy wasted no time. _"Stupefy!"_

_"Expelliarmus!" _Harry shouted, dodging the curse by inches. There was barely enough room to move out of the way. He instantly began aiming his wand straight down the middle of the stage, leaving Malfoy even less leeway.

The Slytherins weren't kidding ― Draco Malfoy was good. All of his spells targeted Harry's face and chest, and hardly missed. The battle wore on. Harry was on his last leg, because he felt like he'd collapse soon enough.

"_Furnunculus!" _snarled Malfoy. The curse zipped past Harry's cheek.

Harry stumbled and nearly dropped his wand. A surge of fear passed through him: Malfoy had taken aim. He was defenseless.

_"Flipendo!"_ Malfoy yelled. But the jinx flew way far of Harry. The orange bolt sliced over the stage and struck its true target: Hermione, who hadn't even had her wand in hand.

The Knock-back jinx sent her flying back, her back hitting the wall with a hard thud. Groaning, she slid to the floor and promptly lost consciousness.

Harry's short temper flared to life. He knew Malfoy wouldn't have missed like that; his accuracy was top-notch. Harry aimed his wand right at Malfoy's laughing face.

_"Ventus!" _screamed Harry. The gust of wind spiraled at Malfoy and lifted him off his feet. _"Petrificus Totalus!"_ Malfoy, who'd been climbing to his feet, became stiff as a board and fell back to the stage. _"Expelliarmus," _Harry panted, pointing his wand at the frozen body. Malfoy's hawthorn wand cart wheeled through the air and rolled to a stop at Harry's feet.

"We have a winner!" said Dumbledore grandly, arms raised. "Excellent show, Mr. Potter. But I must say, Mr. Malfoy, that in a professional duel, firing at a bystander would result in a default loss."

He leaped from the stage with surprising agility and pointed his wand at Hermione. _"Rennervate."_ The spell had no effect. "Mr. Thomas, Mr. Weasley, please take Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing. Tell Madame Pomfrey I do believe she has a minor concussion."

Alarmed, Ron and Dean hurried over and lifted Hermione's limp body. The three disappeared through the door of the classroom. Still furious, Harry was tempted to hex Malfoy's prone body again. Dumbledore's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"_Finite," _the old man said, and Malfoy's body unlocked. The red-faced Slytherin sat back down and crossed his arms. Harry, not concerned, unceremoniously threw the hawthorn wand back to its owner and took his own seat. Some of the Gryffindors cheered.

Professor Dumbledore returned to his platform. "Interesting. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were much less destructive."

A few students laughed at this. "But I can see you at least know a few dueling spells, and that I can work with. There are dark times ahead of us." His voice grew serious. "When each and every one of you can fend off attack . . . then I know I have succeeded." He dismissed the class.

Halfway through Transfiguration, Hermione came back, appearing unharmed. She did look a bit dizzy, though.

"Sorry," whispered Harry as she joined him and Ron at their table. "Malfoy's a git for doing that, I should have hexed him into next week."

"I'm quite alright. Fit as a fiddle." Her eyes crossed for a moment, confirming the after-effects of her head injury were in full swing. "Have you seen Crookshanks lately? That little bastard owes me six Galleons."


	4. The Gryffindor Inside

**Hi lovely readers! So, I sort of forgot the A/N in the last few chapters . . . oops. But, no worries. Just hope everyone's happy. Don't forget to review, because it may or may not be my life force. This chapter will be interesting. We get a little look inside Voldy's jacked-up head.**

**Quick shout-out to Nerdman3000 for adding this fic to their favorites and alerts. You rock! But I love all my readers equally. *Fingers cross* Anyway, some reviews would be nice, too. They might make me update sooner . . . . **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the world of Harry Potter, I only deform it for your amusement.**

The Dark Lord's chambers fit his mood to a tee with their black drapes, dark stone, and charcoal furnishings. Lord Voldemort sat by himself, in a high-backed velvet chair. His wand whirled between his fingers. Only Nagini was present, coiled around his shoulders like a smooth shawl. Voldemort's face was empty and impassive.

He idly considered killing the snake. He knew, sometime prior, he had been affectionate towards Nagini; maybe loved her, if his wretched soul was capable of love. But now, he was unfeeling. The black blood had warped him in the vilest of ways. And yet, he still could not bring himself to care. At all.

Nagini hissed and slid to the fur rug. Voldemort watched the reptile for a while before ripping his robes aside, to reveal his bone-white chest. A spark of feeling whispered in his mind. _You should be worried about that. _The skin over his heart had turned an even more gruesome shade of purple; storm clouds over a sea. Webs of inky veins had begun to spread from the ugly splotch. They traced paths across his skin ― over his torso, down the undersides of his arms, and they were now stretching up his neck. Soon they would invade his face . . . what would his servants think?

Again, indifference took over. Why fret? He was their master. He could command them never to meet his eyes, and they would obey. That was what he needed . . . undying loyalty. _For now._ When he crushed the Order of the Phoenix and their precious Potter, he would have no use of the Death Eaters. They could live among the commoners . . . or he could just kill them. . . .

A face stood out in his mind then, a pale face with a strong jaw and lidded eyes. Bellatrix. She would stay. She was his most faithful lieutenant, after all. The Dark Lord's only general. Maybe he loved her, too, once upon a time. His deadened heart warred silently with the poison in his body. Love. He loved her? No. Love was one of Dumbledore's crackpot ideals, a child's fairy tale. There was no love in this world. There was no love in this world. There was no love in this world.

But Bellatrix's face continued to appear in his mind, and it was a battle cry for his heart. The poison recoiled. He felt human for a peaceful, surreal moment. He chastised himself for nearly murdering Nagini. His mind felt clear . . . images of blood and death no longer hovered on the edges of his reality, threatening to come closer. He pointed his wand at the mirror on the wall. _"Reducto."_

The glass splintered and exploded into the thousand shards, while the wooden frame blasted apart. He grimaced. If he'd allowed the black blood to spread, if his heart had not ruled him, the mirror would have disintegrated into unrecognizable dust. So love, or more like, the memory of love, weakened his spells.

Then he had a choice. Hold onto his last pieces of humanity, or hold onto unimaginable power.

His eyes narrowed to slits as he sat back down and fingered his wand.

* * *

><p>That Saturday was restful for Harry and Ron. Hermione, however, was not nearly as listless as her friends ― she seemed to be constantly in motion. While Harry and Ron played chess, she finished her Alchemy essay on basic transmutations. While Harry and Ron made castles with Exploding Snap cards, she cleaned the entire common room ("Does she think if the house-elves have nothing to, they'll just pack up and leave?" Ron had asked dryly). While Harry and Ron fed the giant squid pieces of bacon, she helped Hagrid catch wood sprites for some of his younger classes.<p>

By lunch time, Harry and Ron had accomplished nothing, and Hermione, it seemed, had accomplished everything.

"I don't know what to do next," said Hermione, blinking in astonishment.

Ron snickered. "You could find Crookshanks . . . heard he owes you a bit of gold!" He burst into hysterics.

"Oh, very funny, Ronald, make fun of the girl with head trauma."

Harry ignored their quibbles. "I know we what we could all do . . ."

Hermione sighed. "We're not sneaking into Dumbledore's office, Harry. At least not today. We can try when he's teaching a class, but he's probably up there right now."

Harry grunted at her unassailable logic and shoveled a last bite of steak in his mouth. He downed a goblet of pumpkin juice, then stood. "I'm going up to the Owlery. Sirius told me to write him whenever I got the chance." He left the Great Hall before they could reply.

The corridors were mercifully quiet. Most of the school was in the Great Hall, leaving Harry to his thoughts. His scar had been throbbing that morning, so he'd buried his worry by skiving off with Ron. That was stupid of him. He should have talked to Dumbledore, or written to Sirius, or at least told Hermione, who would have immediately rattled off a list of suggestions.

Harry was well aware that his scar alerted him that Voldemort was up to something. The Sorting Hat's song came to mind again, and he mentally kicked himself. The war was happening _now_. He couldn't play games anymore, because Voldemort sure wasn't. He had to make a plan, get prepared.

His thoughts were interrupted by a giggle off to his left. He looked around, suddenly realizing he had made his way to the first floor, near the Hospital Wing. A lower chuckle joined the giggling. He crept forward and peeked around the corner ahead of him.

He swallowed a shout and watched Roger Davies and Cho Chang, stars of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, snogging. Davies pinned Cho to the wall and laughed again, his mouth moving lower. Harry backed away, temper flaring. What a . . . a . . . he didn't even have a word for Cho. Just the day before, Harry had caught Cho in the Entrance Courtyard and tried to ask if she wanted to go to Hogsmeade with him in October. She'd tearfully told him that she was very torn up about Cedric, and didn't want to think about dating right then. And yet there she was, snogging Roger Davies.

Harry stormed off down the corridor. He didn't care to send that letter anymore, he just wanted to find the nearest Slytherin and hex them. Thankfully, Hermione showed up before he could get himself expelled.

"Harry!" she called, hurrying down the moving staircases after him. "Why are you going downstairs? The Owlery's in the West Tower ― are you alright?" She noticed the hurt, angry expression on his face.

"I'm just peachy." He turned when he reached the ground floor and crossed the Entrance Hall, onto the grounds.

"Then why are you so mad?"

"Because I just saw Cho snogging Roger Davies upstairs," he snarled, heading towards the Lake.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry . . . ," she said softly.

"Yeah. Whatever." He stopped by the water and say on one of the large rocks jutting out of the lakebed. Hermione perched on another rock.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked tentatively. He didn't answer for several minutes.

"You wouldn't do that, would you?" he inquired suddenly, the waves in the Lake swimming on the surface of his glasses. "Lie to someone about something like this?"

"No," she answered honestly.

"Good. As long as there are people out there like you, I think I'll be okay."

Hermione stared at him for a while before standing and walking back to the castle without another word.

Harry sat on the rock until the other students came out from lunch to enjoy the day. Fall was fast approaching, and summer days were waning. Slowly, he thawed and jogged up to the school, not stopping until he reached the West Tower. He took the quill and parchment out of his pocket and wrote a quick letter to Sirius, mainly about his scar hurting and a bit for some man-to-man advice about dating.

Hedwig swooped down from the windowsill and allowed Harry to tie the letter to her leg. "Take this to Sirius. He's staying with Remus Lupin in London." He nearly forgot that the newly-reformed Order of the Phoenix (the secret organization no one had bothered to tell him about for the entire summer) had found a safe house for the two Marauders.

The snowy owl took off. Harry left the Owlery and followed the long shadows stretching between the windows up to the Gryffindor Tower. "Troll breath," he told the Fat Lady.

The portrait granted him access to the common room. It was noisy with excited Gryffindors. "What's going on?" Harry said when he found Ron.

"Angelina just put up the sign-up sheet for the Quidditch team. Try-outs are tomorrow afternoon."

Harry nodded. "Hey, your mum just bought you a new broom over the summer, right? Why don't you go try out? You're a great Keeper, and Wood graduated."

"Ah, I dunno, Harry. I'm not that good."

Harry was determined. "Oh, come on! Think of how great it would be. Ron Weasley, Quidditch star."

Ron rolled his eyes. "That's you, not me. But fine. I'll do it." He stood and added his name to the list, then sat back down in their corner of the common room. "Hey, want to go fly a bit? I'm rusty."

Harry nodded. They ducked into their dorm to get their brooms; Ron's Cleansweep Eleven looked brand new, and almost held its own next to Harry's Firebolt. They found the pitch empty, except for Luna Lovegood, who was in the stands. She stared at the clouds dreamily. When Ron noticed her, he immediately stuck out his chest, shoulders back, and began strutting.

"What are you doing?"

Ron glanced back at Harry and made a "shut it" gesture. "Luna's watching!"

"Oh, you fancy her? She seems a bit off her rocker."

The redhead glared. "Oh, shut it, you. At least I've got a chance with her. Hermione won't spare me the time of day."

Harry paused to take in the new information. He'd never thought Ron fancied Hermione, but now the fights he started with her made sense. And Ron had been foaming at the mouth when Krum took Hermione to the Yule Ball. But Ron was right ― Harry had never seen Hermione act romantically towards the youngest Weasley boy. "Guess you're right."

Ron kept strutting to the middle of the pitch. He mounted his Cleansweep and took off fast against the wind, circling the pitch in seconds. Harry flew from goal post to goal post unimpressively. He tried to keep Luna's eyes on Ron, who was now doing loop-dee-loops fifty feet up. Thankfully, she seemed interested in him. After a while, she waved Ron over.

Harry chuckled to himself as Ron hissed _"Yes!"_ and dove into the stands, pulling to a stop a foot away from her. They talked for a few minutes. Harry soared to the broomshed and borrowed the Golden Snitch to practice. Once Harry had caught the Snitch for the ninth time, Ron and Luna said good-bye. Luna jumped from seat to seat until she reached the grass and skipped back to the castle. Ron slowly drifted up to where Harry was, half-lying on his broomstick and grinning like a fool.

"How'd it go?" said Harry nonchalantly.

Ron's grin widened. "The lovely Lady Luna said I'm the strangest boy she's ever met."

"That's supposed to be a good thing?"

"She _also_," continued Ron, "said she'd love to go to Hogsmeade with me in October."

Harry slapped his best mate on the back. "Atta boy. You're ahead of me there."

"Aw, Potter doesn't have a date to Hogsmeade?" Ron laughed and took off like a rocket. Harry grinned and darted after him, easily catching him. They messed around until Hermione stopped by and told them dinner would be starting soon. Harry wondered how he'd gone so long without Ron's company the year before.

Harry decided to skip dinner and keep flying; the house-elves would probably give him something to eat if he went by the kitchens. The wind in his hair felt wonderful after a summer stuck on Privet Drive. For a while, he forgot about Voldemort, and how Ron felt about their friendship, and Cho Chang. It was just him and the sky.

The air cleared his mind, and he was finally able to strategize. His scar began to pulse. Yet another sign that the Voldemort was on the move, one step ahead of Harry. The Wizarding World was on the brink of war, the Sorting Hat had confirmed it. He suddenly felt indifferent. What was the point of flying? He was probably going to die in the battle, everyone was going to die, it was hopeless . . .

_No. _His Gryffindor side rang true. _Voldemort is one powerful Dark sorcerer, surrounded by an army of mediocre Dark wizards, _it reasoned. _But we have Dumbledore, a powerful Light sorcerer._

_So? _Harry asked himself.

_So what if, instead of an army of mediocre Light wizards rallying to Dumbledore's side, we had _several _powerful Light wizards?_

Harry considered this, angling his broom at the clouds. _But it takes years to get to Dumbledore's level, _he argued.

The Gryffindor inside smiled dryly. _What would Hermione say? All you have to do is study. _

_There's no time. Voldemort's back, and stronger than ever. We've got to fight soon. _

_We will, _said Gryffindor eagerly. _But I have never marched into battle unprepared. When the time comes, you will be ready. Tell Ron and Hermione that you need to train. If all of you could get to be as strong as Dumbledore, there will be salvation._

Harry said nothing and touched down. He trooped silently to the castle, across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and finally to the Gryffindor common room. The boys' dormitory was empty and still as he stowed the Firebolt in his trunk. He had to find Ron and Hermione ― they would want to know. They had stood by him this long, and they deserved to opt out if the going was too rough.

He went back to the common room and joined them at a table in the very corner. "I need to talk to you," he said seriously.

Hermione instantly snapped shut the book in her hands and Ron shoved his Divination homework aside. They knew Harry's tone of voice meant something serious.

"I've been thinking," he began, folding his arms on the table, fists tight. "The only reason Voldemort's been so strong is that we too evenly matched. It's always the same, you know? Voldemort fights Dumbledore, Dumbledore fights Voldemort; and we're in the background fighting Death Eaters. But what if there were more people on our side that could take Voldemort? If Dumbledore had help, we'd have a chance, right?"

Ron looked hard at the table, thinking. Hermione frowned. "Harry," she said slowly, "we're in our fifth year. It takes years and years to be even half as powerful as Professor Dumbledore. We haven't even got out of school."

He smiled a little ruefully. "I think someone told me once that all you have to do is study."

She seemed unconvinced. "The dedication and diligence that we'd need . . . I don't see how we'd find the time."

Ron's face turned surly. "I dunno, mate. I barely pass my classes now, how do you think I'd fare trying to learn magic that we wouldn't even see in a N.E.W.T. course?"

Harry's eyes trailed over their faces, paused on Hermione's. She looked fragile in this light, discussing methods for waging war so calmly. He didn't know what he'd do if the Death Eaters caught her. There was so little he had left in the world, how would he survive if someone like her was taken from him?

"You're right. We need to do this." Hermione's voice was sharp and resolved. Harry and Ron glanced at her questioningly.

"It's the only way," she said. "What would you do if they came after your family, Ron?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What about your brothers?"

"It won't get that far," Ron disagreed through gritted teeth. "Because that's what grown-ups are for. They'll fight this war. They'll win, and everything will go back to normal."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, they'll win, just like they did in the first war? If Voldemort hadn't tried to kill me, there wouldn't have _been _a second war. And there won't be a third war. This fight is for everything. Everything's at stake."

Ron shoved his chair back. "You're wrong. We're just kids. We can't fight You-Know-Who." He stalked off, up the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

"I really hope this won't be a recurring thing," Harry said bitterly as the door to the dormitory stairs slammed shut.

Hermione was all business. "We'll worry about him later. What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not sure yet, but we need a new base of operations, so to speak." He gestured to the other Gryffindors. "No way could we train in here."

"How about the old Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom? No one uses it anymore."

Harry grinned; it felt good to have a plan, to be in action. "Perfect."

* * *

><p>Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore paced the length of his office with his hands clasped behind his back. The Sorting Hat tracked his progress, occasionally dropping bits of information.<p>

"I see him growing ever stronger one moment, then becoming stoic the next. He has come to a crossroad. There's some decision to be made that will change everything."

Dumbledore sighed. He was still overcoming the shock of the Sorting Hat revealing what it Saw.

"But what must he decide? What can be so drastic?" the old wizard asked.

"The reason is blocked from my vision," the Hat replied. "Call Severus; perhaps he can offer some aide."

The Headmaster nodded and waved his wand. His silver phoenix Patronus appeared. "Go to Severus. Bring him, quickly."

The Patronus disappeared in a flash of white. "What else can you tell me?" said Dumbledore heavily.

"There is something at work here, but it is not Dark Magic. Something otherworldly, though I cannot identify what. Perhaps it is ancient magic? I can't See . . . ," mused the Sorting Hat. It swiveled slightly on its shelf. "What do you speculate?"

"It escapes me, old friend," sighed Dumbledore. The door to the office opened then, and Severus Snape entered, black robes billowing with his fast gait.

"You called?"

The Headmaster nodded gravely. "Yes, dear Severus. I believe that Lord Voldemort has achieved something we can only live in fear of. Please, give me your report."

The Potions Master shut the door behind him and began to cast secrecy Charms. Finally, he stowed his wand in his robes.

"I cannot say much, but you must see that the Dark Lord is extremely unbalanced at the moment. From what I can tell, he is undergoing a transformation, and his mind is slowly . . . unhinging."

"A transformation?"

"Precisely," said Severus. "I have seen veins of some kind, dark, purple veins, upon his skin . . . they spread quickly. Do you know of any Dark Magic that fits the description?"

Dumbledore heaved another sigh and sank into his throne-like chair. Severus did not sit, but stood patiently as his elder replied, "None. I will research while I can. But Severus, be careful. If Voldemort is truly as unstable as you say he may try to kill you in his anger . . ."

"What do you mean, 'While I can'?" Severus walked forward and met the old wizard's eyes.

"I mean, Severus, that my time here is declining . . . which means the world is on the knife's edge. I may be the only one that can hold off Voldemort until Harry is ready. But if his power truly exceeds my own, Voldemort may come to finish me off . . . and if that happens, I fear for Harry's life more than my own."

Dumbledore stood. "Come. I must alert Minerva. I believe she is in her study on the first floor."

The two men left the room, taking the now silent Sorting Hat with them. As the door shut softly, Harry Potter threw off his Invisibility Cloak, folded it over his arm, and made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, face frozen with shock.


	5. The Black Walnut Wand

**So, what do you think so far? Leave it in a review! **

**Hope everyone's enjoying the dramatic-ness.**

**Also: In this fic, the Azkaban escape already happened, and Bellatrix let all of the Death Eaters into Grimmauld Place. In other words, it's now the Death Eater headquarters. **

Yet again, Ron was staying far from his former best friends, opting instead to plant himself between Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan in every lesson. Harry couldn't believe the redheaded git ― he became offended so easily. Hermione invited Neville to Ron's empty chair, mostly because the young Scion of House Longbottom was becoming hopelessly lost in all of the work fifth years had.

Harry was not surprised by Neville's struggles. He himself was drowning in the amount of homework they'd been assigned, especially by Snape. The Potions Master had apparently grown an even stronger dislike of Harry over the summer holiday. Every time he saw them, Snape demanded long, dreary essays from the Gryffindors about wolfsbane and ivy and all sorts of potion ingredients no one cared about.

Other teachers were more lenient than Snape, though not by much. Professor Sprout had conjured up the most disastrous of plants for them in Herbology, employing the monsters into lessons that made the students reek of green leaves and dirt long after they showered.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts class was like a real battle. Under Dumbledore's watchful eye, they whirled, spelled, and pirouetted tirelessly. Each Gryffindor had been paired with a Slytherin dueling partner, and this resulted in a slew of "accidental" injuries and malicious fighting. Neville had been sent to the hospital wing after Theodore Nott had cursed his eyes shut. Hermione, in a surprising fit of anger, wound up hexing Daphne Greengrass into a three-day coma.

Professor McGonagall, in turn, put the most challenging tasks before them each day. She'd somehow obtained a herd of sheep and set them loose in her classroom, then told her pupils to change them into pillows without another word. Harry hadn't done well at all. He'd managed to make the head and limbs of the sheep disappear, but couldn't get the wool to turn to cloth or the body to become less cylindrical.

Even Care of Magical Creatures involved a large effort. Hagrid, true to his word, had secured a live griffin, which was chained within an iron cage in the Forbidden Forest. The creature, which was classified XXXX by the Ministry, was only allowed on the school grounds within these strict restraints. The griffin reminded Harry of a hippogriff. Its front was like that of a bird of prey, with bronze feathers, though its haunches and back legs were those of a golden lion. It alternated between roaring deafeningly and cawing loudly.

Divination was as phony as ever, and Harry wished he'd dropped it like Hermione. Unfortunately for him, there were no other electives for him to take. He couldn't imagine himself in Arithmancy at all. Alchemy was out ― Professor McGonagall would never recommend _that_ class for him. Muggle Studies was what Harry wanted to be disassociated with entirely.

And finally, there were the prefect duties. Harry wanted to pull his hair out. Halloween was around the corner, so of course, he and Hermione helped decorating. He never would have guessed how much work it took. They had to enchant jack-o-lanterns around the floating candles in the Great Hall, but the pumpkins kept catching fire and showering him in ashes. The suits of armor had to have blue flames burning in them to give off an eerie glow. The only problem with this was that the armor didn't exactly like housing the flames, and hit the prefects over the heads with their shields when they bent down.

When Harry and Hermione conjured the last orange streamer in the entrance hall, they were positively exhausted. Two weeks of tireless studying and decorating had run them into the ground.

Head Boy Dante, who was busily enchanting live bats to swoop down from the ceiling, said, "Nice work, you two." One of the bats collapsed in midair and fell to the floor painfully. Dante cursed and went to work again.

As they jogged up the marble staircase, Harry and Hermione discussed what he'd overheard in the Headmaster's office.

"Are you sure Dumbledore said he thought he was going to die?" Hermione seemed unable to believe that the old man would ever truly pass on.

"Absolutely," said Harry. "He told Snape Voldemort's coming after him, and then he'll find me. He thinks he's the only thing holding Voldemort off . . ."

Hermione frowned as she digested this. "If Voldemort really is as powerful as the Sorting Hat thinks, I don't see how anyone can stop him."

"But he isn't that powerful, not yet." Harry ducked as one of Dante's bats fluttered up the stairs after them and disappeared. "The Sorting Hat said something's holding him back."

"So you're saying as long as he stays undecided, we'll have a chance?" clarified Hermione.

"Exactly." He frowned. "But we don't have much time. I wish we could get a hint, a clue . . . at least know what we're up against."

They entered the common room and sat down to finish their History of Magic essay on yet another goblin rebellion, until the sun was completely diminished, and a large number of students had gone to dinner.

"We should get down to the Great Hall," said Harry, throwing things into his bag haphazardly. He was too hungry to care about disorganization.

Hermione agreed and they joined Neville on his way through the portrait hole, discussing the essay.

"I've barely done the first paragraph!" exclaimed Neville in exasperation. "When does Professor Binns expect us to sleep?"

They complained about homework as they took the seven flights of stairs back to the ground floor. When they arrived in the entrance hall, however, a crowd of excited students blocked their way to the dining hall.

"What's going on?" Harry asked Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff fifth-year who was standing nearby.

"Someone's coming up the drive!"

Harry and Hermione exercised their prefect powers and fought to the front. The oak front doors were open, and indeed, a group of cloaked figures with cowls over their heads was making its way to the castle. Professor Dumbledore was in the lead.

"Off to dinner, children," the kindly old Headmaster said. Most of the crowd grumbled and filed into the hall, and Harry and Hermione almost followed, when Harry saw a familiar face under one of the hoods . . .

"Remus?"

Their former Defense professor smiled and let his hood fall. More faces were revealed, including a woman with pink hair, a black wizard in blue robes, and Bill Weasley. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled when the last of the five pulled off his hood.

"Sirius!" Harry yelled, slapping a hand over his mouth, though none of the students in the Hall had heard.

"Well, really, Black, keep your face hidden," said Professor McGonagall as she came down the marble staircase with Hagrid and Snape in tow.

"Why? It's for the ladies, Professor," countered Sirius with a schoolboy's grin.

Snape was not amused. "The ladies that will call the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you mean? Stop your nonsense before you're seen."

Sirius glared but yanked the fabric back to cover his face. Dumbledore glazed over the tense moment by saying, "Ah, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger! While you're here, I'd like you to meet Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt." The man and woman waved respectively. "I trust you're acquainted with Mr. Weasley?"

They nodded to Bill. He grinned in reply, then said, "Hey, I'll go drop in on the others. Why isn't Ron with you?"

They merely shrugged as Bill ran off, dragon hide boots thumping against the marble floor, ponytail swishing. They saw him join the Weasley clan at the Gryffindor table.

"Why are you all here?" asked Harry.

Snape's lip curled. "Again you display an inability to keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you. Always meddling, aren't you, Potter?"

"Now, Severus," chided Dumbledore. "Just an Order meeting, my friends. Shall we?"

The present members headed up the marble staircase, but Sirius hung back as Dumbledore left a few words. "These brave witches and wizards will be in the castle briefly, and more are on the way. But I must ask you not to repeat anything you've seen or heard just now. If you're asked, pretend you've no idea."

He departed. Harry gave Hermione a look and entered the Great Hall for a much-deserved dinner.

* * *

><p>The meeting room was on the seventh floor, where it was least likely to be found. Its walls were decorated by many maps of England and Scotland, all with different color pins piercing the parchment. A single window faced the grounds. Several broomsticks with Cloaking Charms were propped up next to it, ready for a hasty escape. A round table took up most of the floor space.<p>

The recently-arrived Order of the Phoenix now occupied the round table. Alastor Moody and Arthur and Molly Weasley joined them soon after, and when everyone was seated, Dumbledore spoke.

"It brings me great sadness to have to bear this news yet again, but you all must see the threat coming near. Lord Voldemort has become an even more formidable foe. He is in possession of a magic we cannot begin to fathom, only prepare for as best we can. A storm is brewing, and only by uniting as one nation can Magical Britain survive."

The Order exchanged wary glances, though Dumbledore was famous for delivering cryptic opening speeches.

Dumbledore went on, "Before we come to a solution: Minerva, please pin these photographs to the corkboard labeled 'Targets'. The second stack should be pinned under 'Possible Targets'." He held out two stacks of wizard's photos.

Minerva swallowed and took them. She stood and began to fasten the photographs to the corkboard next to the "Missing or Dead" board. Too many faces were cropping up under "Missing or Dead" nowadays, faces like Sturgis Podmore and Emmeline Vance. Calmly, she tacked the pictures to the board, one after another, and heard the grunts of grim acceptance as the Order members saw their faces staring back at them. Lupin, Sirius, Arthur, Molly, Alastor, Nymphadora, Bill. And just underneath these were two photographs Minerva was not pleased with.

"Potter and Granger, Albus?" She waved the photos at him. "They're just children!"

"That changes nothing," said the Headmaster. "Mr. Potter is more worthy a spot on that board than anyone else, and I'll have you know there have been reports of Death Eater activity near the southern edge of Oxfordshire, Miss Granger's home."

Minerva pursed her lips and did as she was told. She felt a twinge of pain, because she had met the children when they were only eleven, and now she was posting their pictures on a list of targeted witches and wizards. And their faces were so serious, too stoic for a pair of fifth years . . .

She swallowed again and moved to the "Possible Targets" board. Every single Weasley child was listed, as well as Augusta Longbottom. Finally, she'd finished. She took her seat and waited patiently.

"Commit these faces to memory," said Dumbledore gravely. "We must all watch out for each other's and our own safety. Now, for our course of action." He turned and met Snape's eyes. "I must now ask you, Severus, to put your life at risk yet again. Return to Grimmauld Place, and find out what Voldemort is planning."

Snape's face did not betray emotion, because he wouldn't allow it. He had become the spy of his own will. He was the most endangered man in the war, besides Potter. _It's all for you, Lily. _

"I cannot refuse," said Snape, lips barely moving.

A quiet moment passed as the weight of his task settled upon them. Dumbledore cleared his throat and visibly relaxed. "Until we know more, I cannot anticipate Voldemort's next move, or our own."

He stood and stroked Fawkes the Phoenix, who was perched on the windowsill. "During these tumultuous times I offer those in need lodging at Hogwarts. For now, I will have the house-elves prepare a room for you, Sirius. But you must not leave during the day. Should a student see you . . . ," he trailed off with a shake of his head. "It would be chaos."

Snape's lip curled when he realized that a man he hated dearly would be staying in the castle. Memories of his days as a student surfaced, memories of Black and Potter torturing him day after day. . . .

Sirius smiled. "Thank you, Albus."

"It is my pleasure. If it suits you, I'll ask young Mr. Potter to visit you now and again."

Sirius beamed his acceptance and leaned back in his seat, hands laced behind his head. The Order members began to move.

"Well, we'd better be off. The train in Hogsmeade is leaving in forty-five minutes," said Lupin, who was consulting his scratched gold pocket watch. Tonks, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Emmeline Vance, and Kingsley Shacklebolt followed him out of the room, off to catch the train back to London. Moody and Bill followed McGonagall to her office to use the Floo network (Bill had to be in Cairo, and Moody didn't trust the steam engines. "Any Death Eater could waltz in and Charm the thing to blow to bits!").

Snape and Hagrid left for their own offices, while Sirius followed Dumbledore to his new room. He cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, since students were just getting out of dinner. "Where will I be staying this fine evening, Oh Fair Headmaster?"

Dumbledore led Sirius down to the sixth floor, past a lavatory, and finally to an empty classroom. Sirius could tell it had not been used in years; a thick layer of dust covered the floor and desks. Only one grimy window was set in the opposite wall, overlooking the greenhouses. The two halves of a severed bookshelf rested at the head of the classroom.

"As you can see, this is the best I can offer without jeopardizing your safety. But a few spells could clean this up in no time!" said Dumbledore cheerfully. He began jabbing his wand all over. The dust vanished, the grime on the window scrubbed itself clean, and the bookshelf was repaired. The old wizard turned to Sirius.

"And finally, I thought you might want this back . . ." He reached into his robes and withdrew a eleven and a half inch wand, black walnut wood, dragon heartstring core. Sirius stared in awe.

"My wand . . . but . . . they snapped it! The Minister snapped it in front of me when he called the Dementors!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I came into possession of the pieces of your wand, and had my good friend Mr. Ollivander strip the wand down and rebuild it from scratch." He handed the wand to its owner.

As soon as Sirius's fingers wrapped around the smooth, sculpted handle, a jolt of magic surged through him, fourteen years worth of it. He nearly fainted with joy.

Before Sirius could thank him, Dumbledore said, "You can style your bedroom however you'd like," and left the room.

Sirius Orion Black grinned, lifted the wand, and set to work.

**I adore Sirius, and felt he deserved some happiness. Anyway, review! Comment! Criticize!**


	6. The Photo Strip

**Off on another adventure?**

If Snape's class had ever dragged on, it had never dragged on like this.

For the eighth time in a minute, Harry's eyes darted to his watch. Still forty-five minutes to go, he thought glumly, chin dropping to his desk. Snape's back was turned, as he was using his wand to write instructions for the potion they were brewing.

Harry wasn't the only one who was anxiously waiting to leave the class. It was finally Friday after a long week, and nearly everyone was looking forward to a relaxing weekend, as well as Saturday's main event: the first Hogsmeade visit. Across the room, Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini reclined in their seats, idly conversing in low tones. Snape ignored them.

Harry was sitting by himself that period, because Ron was still alienating him and Hermione had moved to help a frazzled Lavender Brown and Neville Longbottom. The stress of O.W.L. year was getting to them. Harry didn't mind the isolation, though; he was very eager to get out of class already, because Sirius had left him a note telling him to come to his new quarters after school hours.

He heard Dean Thomas whisper, "Can't wait to get out of here, how 'bout you?" to Seamus Finnigan. Instantly, Snape whirled in a cloud of black robes and bore down on the Gryffindors.

"Detention, Thomas, Finnigan," he hissed. "I don't want to hear about your uninteresting lives in my classroom, is that clear?"

They swallowed and nodded. The Slytherins sneered behind Snape's back, and Harry's anger reached a boiling point. Maybe it was the anticipation, or maybe it was because of the heat coming from his cauldron, but he thought he'd snap if Snape said one more unfair word.

Thankfully, the Potions Master returned to the blackboard. Malfoy and Zabini stopped talking. It was utterly, entirely quiet. Harry drooped back to the table. Footsteps drifted to them from the corridor outside, and somewhere high above the subterranean classroom, a chair scraped against the floor. The students fell into a muddy stupor as the everlasting chill of the dungeons seeped into their bones.

After what felt like hours, Snape finished writing. He sat down at his desk. "The instructions are now on the board. Commence."

Harry groaned to himself and centered his cauldron on his desk. They were brewing the Awakening Potion, though it didn't look too terribly difficult. He opened his drawstring pouch and shook six snake fangs into the mortar. He crushed the snake fangs with a handful of standard ingredient, but when he poured the fine powder into the cauldron, it turned steel gray instead of sky blue.

He gritted his teeth and Vanished the cauldron's contents, preparing to start over, when Snape loomed over him.

"Gray, Potter? Thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you? No matter. I want your potion to be exactly the right color by the end of the class. If it isn't, kiss any _after-school activities _good-bye." He swept away.

Harry's cheeks flamed. Snape knew about Sirius, and he was trying to get Harry to miss the meeting. He was suddenly hurt and jealous of Neville, who was being coached by Hermione. Harry, clearly, needed her help more.

He bit back the possessive thoughts and restarted the potion. Fortunately, the brew was the suggested shade, and everything went smoothly till he added the dried Billywig stings. _No! _His hand slipped, and nine stings tumbled into the cauldron instead of six . . . he slammed a fist down on the table. Snape, who was terrorizing Fey Dunbar across the room, smiled evilly at Harry.

Harry was about ready to give up when he steeled himself and Transfigured his pestle into an oven mitt. Plunging his hand into the boiling brew, he scraped the bottom until the Billywig stings were safe in his gloved hand. He dropped the stings on the desk and slapped the steaming mitt into the mortar. Seconds later, it turned back into a pestle.

Snape hadn't seen the rescue mission. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and carefully dropped six stings into the cauldron, stirred three times clockwise, and finally turned off the heat. The potion was the exact shade of green described on the blackboard. He grinned broadly and waited for Snape's inspection.

The class was almost over when Snape swooped upon Harry and examined his potion. His lip curled unpleasantly, like he'd smelled something particularly awful. "Hm. It seems you aren't as incompetent as I'd assumed. You are dismissed when the bell rings."

Harry smiled at Snape's retreating back and began packing his things away. Victory was sweet.

Harry trooped up to the sixth floor afterwards, the late afternoon sun radiating from the open windows. It was peaceful. A flock of second years roamed the grounds far below him, while the Whomping Willow swayed dangerously. He kept walking until he came to the painting of Xander the Ruthless. The occupant of the frame was a tall, burly wizard, dressed all in black with a sword in one hand and a wand in the other. He jabbed at Harry with it.

Harry frowned. Sirius had said his room was next to Xander the Ruthless, but it occurred to Harry that enchantments of secrecy had probably been placed so no wandering students came upon escaped convict Sirius Black taking a nap. "Snuffles?" he called uncertainly, not daring to say "Sirius."

A loud bark echoed off the stones walls. Harry spun on the spot as the giant black dog leaped into his chest, effectively knocking him to the ground. The dog wagged its tongue.

Harry laughed and struggle to his feet. "Hello, Snuffles."

Suddenly, Sirius took off, padding down the hallway and out of sight. Harry followed. The dog became the man when he turned the corner.

"Sorry, pup," said Sirius. He grinned. "That bastard in the portrait will tell the whole castle if he sees me."

Harry returned the grin and asked, "But where's your room? I didn't see a door."

"It's advanced magic," he replied. "Only Dumbledore and I can see the door right now, unless we give someone the password. It's a slightly less powerful Fidelius Charm."

"So what's the password?"

Sirius's grin widened. "Padfoot and Prongs."

Harry laughed with him as Sirius changed back to his Animagus form. The boy and his "dog" came back to the portrait. "Padfoot and Prongs," said Harry. A moment passed where he thought he'd said something wrong, but a door materialized in the wall. He opened it and Snuffles preceded him into the room.

Sirius had definitely gone all out with his lodging. The front of the classroom was dominated by a king-sized bed, dressed in Gryffindor colors. Three of the walls were plastered with Muggle and Wizard posters. The Muggle posters were all of scantily-clad women and motorcycles, while the Wizard set consisted entirely of wanted posters of Sirius. He seemed greatly amused by them.

The fourth wall, however, was what caught Harry's eye. It was not because of the large black motorbike. It was the many wizard photos posted there, photos of people he would never know.

Sirius watched silently as Harry examined the photographs. There was one of Sirius, James, Remus, and Pettigrew in Hogwarts uniform. They smiled at the camera like nothing was wrong in their lives. Another of Sirius and James was next to it, scarves around their necks. They were standing in the middle of the Hogsmeade's snowy High Street. They looked older, so Harry assumed that the photographs were in chronological order.

The subjects of the photos shifted then. Now, Pettigrew appeared less and less, and Lily Evans appeared more and more. His eyes paused on her smiling face. The particular picture had been taken around their seventh year, with Lily, James, Sirius, and Remus. Lily and James were watching each other with high-school-sweetheart eyes. Remus and Sirius flanked them. A rat sat on Remus's shoulder. . . .

Then the Hogwarts uniforms and scenery disappeared. One last photo showed all of the Marauders in dress robes, as well as their entire seventh year, as they graduated from Hogwarts. Filler-photos of the five celebrating holidays followed; occasionally a familiar face appeared in the pictures. The wedding of Lily and James Potter was catalogued.

Harry held his breath because he knew what was next. And there it was ― the baby with untidy black hair and bright green eyes. First came Lily, holding Harry adoringly. Then James and Lily. Sirius appeared, then Remus, and Peter Pettigrew. A few people he didn't recognize. These photographs gave way to Harry as an infant, living with Lily and James. There he was, racing along on a toy broomstick . . . and Sirius, holding him on his shoulders . . . Pettigrew, in rat form, playing hide-and-seek with him.

And then the photo strip ended.

"That was right before it happened, you know," said Sirius hoarsely. "When Voldemort attacked you. We'd all come over, and Pettigrew turned into a rat to entertain you. Playing with you, when he knew he'd given your life away. . . ."

Harry felt sick to his stomach. "Bastard."

"Agreed. I just wish I had said yes, when they asked me to be Secret-Keeper. None of this would have happened . . ."

"Don't blame yourself." Harry turned around. "There's no way you could've known, you all trusted him."

Sirius shrugged and flopped down on his bed. Harry sat on the shiny motorcycle, feeling gloomy. This meeting had not gone as he'd expected.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Harry hoped he could break Sirius out of his mood.

"Anything."

"If you were trying to become a powerful wizard ― like, say, Dumbledore ― what should you know how to do?"

Sirius sat up and eyed him. "Why do you ask?"

"Just ― just curious."

"In that case, I'd say you'd have to know how to do everything. Wordless magic, but that's pretty simple . . . wandless magic, too, and that's tough . . . sometimes being an Animagus helps . . . I don't know. I'm not a very powerful wizard, Harry."

"Oh." He fingered his wand. "Thanks."

They talked until dinner. Harry left with a smile, but inside he was frowning. Wordless and wandless magic?

He entered the Great Hall later than usual; everyone was half-way done with their meals. He didn't see Hermione anywhere, so he sat down with the Angelina Johnson and Fred and George Weasley.

"Evening, Harry," said George.

"Pleasure seeing you here," said Fred.

Angelina rolled her eyes at them and turned to Harry. "Quidditch try-outs were yesterday. Your friend Ron made it ― he's an excellent Keeper."

"Who else got in?" Harry decided not to mention his feud with Ron.

"Alicia, Katie, and I are still Chasers, the twins are still Beaters, and you're still Seeker. But I did pick Ginny Weasley to be your back-up, in case you get hurt."

Harry made a mental note to congratulate Ginny and helped himself to some potatoes. "When's the next practice?"

"Tomorrow, after the Hogsmeade visit. I've booked the pitch as much as possible. Don't want the other teams to get a head start on us."

"Nothing to worry about," interjected Fred. "Hufflepuff's rubbish, Ravenclaw's Seeker can't keep her hands off their Captain, and Slytherin's only good at ganging up on us."

"But we won't have that," said George. "I'll hex any Slytherin that comes after me, I swear."

"You'd better not," Angelina growled. "If you get thrown out of the game, I only have some fourth year kids to replace you. Keep it clean!"

Harry laughed at their faces, but his stomach twisted when Fred mentioned Cho and Davies.

Hermione came into the Hall then, arms full of books and scrolls, eyes bright. She sat down next to George and threw her things down.

"Where've you been?" inquired Fred, rescuing his meal from the cascade of parchment.

"The library, of course," said Hermione, carefully packing the scrolls into her bag. Harry figured Madam Pinch had thrown her out before she'd had the chance to get organized.

The twins shrugged and went back to discussing the upcoming Quidditch season. Harry kept trying to ask Hermione why she'd been in the library all evening, but she changed the subject constantly. . . .

Harry awoke early that morning and dressed silently. The others were still fast asleep, so he crept out of the room and down the stairs. The common room was empty in the early morning's peace. Harry wasn't surprised. It was Saturday after all; no lessons, and a Hogsmeade visit. And then Quidditch practice. He would've been much more excited about the prospect of playing if it weren't for the team's new Keeper.

Pushing the thought out of his mind, he went over to the notice board by the portrait hole and unpinned the map of Hogsmeade. He hadn't even thought of the visit.

"Could go to Zonko's," he murmured to himself. "Could use a laugh . . . then Spintwitches, need to get some new Quidditch pads, my old ones are splintering. . . ."

He returned to the fireplace and sat down on the threadbare rug. _"Wingardium Leviosa," _he murmured, and the sofa in front of him levitated several feet in the air. It fell back softly. He smiled. _This is what I've been missing, _he thought. _Magic._

Before he knew it, the windows were painted with the white-gold glow of the sun. Excited third-years came down the staircase. He remembered the feeling of anticipation he'd had in his own third year, though that had been under quite different circumstances.

Harry went down to breakfast with Colin Creevey, who was insisting on taking a picture of him next to the marble staircase. Harry reminded him that he'd been photographed by Colin in that spot at least twelve times.

"Hey, Colin, I heard the griffin got out of its cage," said Harry grumpily. "You should go take a picture."

"That's a great idea! Thanks, Harry!" He sprinted through the oak front doors and out of sight. Harry blinked in surprise (he'd spoken sarcastically) but continued into the Great Hall.

He sat down at the nearly-empty Gryffindor table and buttered a bit of toast. Not feeling very hungry at all, he wished he could go visit Sirius, but knew it was forbidden. His godfather had said not to come see him too often lest he wanted to arouse suspicion. Admittedly, Harry had little reason to go up to the sixth floor very often.

Hermione joined him a few minutes later. "Good morning, Harry."

"Good morning." He stashed his money bag under his robes. "Ready to go?"

She made a face, sliding the platter of bacon farther away from her. "Yes, I'm not feeling up to breakfast today."

They were granted passage by Filch, once he'd triple-checked Harry's name on his list of those allowed to visit Hogsmeade. He clearly disapproved of students like Harry Potter being permitted to have fun.

The wind was biting that morning, and Harry cursed himself for forgetting his scarf. Students laughed somewhere up ahead. The screeching call of Hagrid's griffin broke the stillness of the morning.

"So are you ever going to tell me what you were doing in the library yesterday?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Why won't you just believe I was doing homework?"

"If you'd been doing homework, you wouldn't have avoided the question so much," reasoned Harry. She sighed.

"Let's just say it was recreational studying," she hedged. "I think it might be useful, but I won't say anything until I'm sure." She glanced at his face. "Oh, don't pout, it makes you look childish."

"Just tell me!"

She crossed her arms and sped up. "No." And that was that.

Harry forgot about her secret as soon as he stepped into Spintwitches. Quidditch supplies, as far as the eye could see. He bought the arm and leg guards he'd needed then began to appreciate the other items for sale. There was a rack of Super-Stick Broom-Glue, a paste that, when applied to the broomstick, could hold a rider in place more securely than iron chains. He bypassed the display; any item besides the broomstick itself that aided the player in any way was illegal in a Quidditch match.

He was admiring the array of different Broom-Guards ("Fend off aerial attacks without lifting a finger!") when Hermione returned from Tomes and Scrolls with a magically-shrunken bag of books.

"We should go to the Three Broomsticks," said Hermione. "It's chilly out."

Harry agreed and they left the shop. Groups of students hurried into and out of stores all around them. As usual, it was crowded and warm. The barmaid Rosmerta stood behind the bar, magicking glasses of butterbeer and firewhiskey to various customers. Harry pulled Hermione aside as a tray of drinks glided by and up to the second level of the pub. A tableful of drunks chorused, "Thanks, Rosy!"

They sat down at a wooden table in the middle of the pub. The door opened and Blaise Zabini entered, Slytherin scarf around neck. He walked slowly, and flipped a few Sickles onto the counter. Madam Rosmerta pocketed the coins and handed Zabini three butterbeers. Harry watched the dark-skinned fifth-year slowly walk the length of the bar, then sit down at and empty corner table. Moments later, Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass entered the pub and sat down with him.

"They're plotting," Harry growled out of the corner of his mouth.

Hermione sighed. "Leave it alone, Harry. They're none of your business."

"But just look at them! They're plotting, I can see it on Malfoy's face!"

"You're pouting again."

Harry crossed his arms angrily. "I am not pouting."

"Yes you are." She caught Madam Rosmerta's attention by writing _Two butterbeers, please_ in the air with her wand. The barmaid winked and began to fill their order.

He stopped arguing and peeked at the Slytherin table again. Malfoy caught his eye and glared, but Harry met his gaze. Soon, Malfoy turned back to Daphne and Zabini.

When their drinks came, they finished quickly and left the pub. Harry felt the Slytherins' eyes on his back. His hand inched closer to his wand.

"Leave it _alone_," Hermione hissed.

They walked back up the path to the castle slowly. Harry's mind was now gearing towards the sure-to-be awkward Quidditch practice. He turned his face to the Quidditch Pitch, where Angelina was already checking the flying conditions. Ron wasn't there yet.

Harry left Hermione in the entrance hall and hurried up to Gryffindor Tower for his Firebolt. He changed into his Quidditch robes and new pads, then bolted downstairs and out onto the grounds. The wind was still cold, though not rough enough to seriously affect his flying.

Most of the team had assembled on the pitch, except for Ron and Alicia Spinnet. Angelina, Katie, Fred, and George were already dressed and ready.

"There you are, Harry!" shouted Angelina. "We can't start practice without you. Where are Ron and Alicia?"

"Dunno," he kicked a leg over his Firebolt. "Let's have a run around."

Angelina smiled like she knew something they didn't. "Actually, we're spending this practice in the locker rooms."

"What? Why?" Harry's questions went unanswered as Katie, and moments later, Ron, joined them on the pitch.

"Follow me, team," said Angelina, and they filed into the locker rooms on the edge of the field.

Angelina had conjured a blackboard somehow and fastened it to the lockers across from them. The benches had been replaced with a square table, and upon its surface, a map of a Quidditch pitch was spread. Hovering figurines of Quidditch players adorned the space above it.

"Oh no," gasped Fred. "She's turned into another _Wood_."

George shrieked.

"Shut it, you two," their captain commanded. "Oliver sent me this. He told me Gryffindor's going to win this year. He also," she paused for effect, gesturing at the blackboard, which she had written furiously on, "gave me a new plan for ensuring our victory."

"Across the country, and he's still ordering us around," grumbled George.

"You should be thanking him! Don't you see what this is?" She pointed to the blackboard again. "It's a list of professional moves, no Hogwarts team has ever done these!"

The Weasley twins paused, then gaped. "He gave us _instructions_?"

Angelina smiled. "You bet he did."

They all stood around for the next few hours as Angelina explained to them the professional moves, with demonstrations from the floating figurines. She started with moves all of them should know, like the Sloth Grip Roll. Used to avoid Bludgers, the Sloth Grip Roll called for the player do a complete roll in midair. Harry had done the move by accident on several occasions, but doing it purposely seemed entirely different.

"We'll go over the Beater moves first," said Angelina. "This one's called the Dopplebeater Defense." She flicked her wand at the mini-players. The two white-robed Beaters flew at a Bludger, and simultaneously, they hit it with their bats. The super-charged Bludger flew at high-speed at the opposing black-robed player and knocked him clear off his broom. The player hit the ground, as two mediwizards rushed out of nowhere and loaded him onto a tiny stretcher.

"I dunno, Angelina," said Fred, rubbing his head.

"Bludgers are pretty small," said George. "I don't see how we could both hit one . . ."

"Just practice," Angelina urged. "Imagine what we could do with moves like that."

Angelina turned to her fellow Chasers and went over their new formations; from the demonstrations, Harry was excited to see them on a larger scale. Then there were the Keeper's techniques. They looked quite difficult.

Only two moves were outlined for the Seeker; the Plumpton Pass and the Wronski Feint. Harry had seen Krum perform the Wronski Feint at the Quidditch World Cup, though the Plumpton Pass was new to him. He watched in awe as the tiny white-robed Seeker closed in on the Snitch. Instead of actually catching it, he let it zoom into his sleeve, and Harry realized it was to give the Chasers more time to score goals before the Seeker ended the game.

Angelina smiled widely at her team's transfixed faces. "This is how we're going to win," she enthused. "I can't wait to knock the Slytherins off their brooms in the first match."


	7. The Heaven, the Hell

Thanks** to my lovely reviewers: I raise a goblet of pumpkin juice to you.**

**By the way, this will probably end up Draco/Daphne.**

"My Lord?"

Snape stood in the doorway of the Dark Lord's chambers, his shadow a black mass on the dark wooden floorboards. The sleeping Nagini was coiled on the ashes in the fireplace.

The Dark Lord did not turn from the window. The moon was not present over Grimmauld place that night, and with no lanterns lit in the room, Snape's vision was nearly absent.

"Severus . . . you've finally come to visit me . . ."

Snape's blood ran cold at the whispery voice of his "master". Dumbledore was not lying . . . something was horribly wrong. The Potions Master could no longer see the outline of the Dark Lord at the window, but he didn't dare cast the Lumos Charm.

"A faithful servant always returns to his master," Snape answered coolly. He desperately wished he could see where the most dangerous wizard was in the room ahead of him. It was how the ancient heroes he'd read about in his Hogwarts years must have felt, entering the cave of a terrible monster with wand sheathed. The only difference, he thought scathingly, is that I am no hero.

There was a snap, and silver flames sprang to life in the hearth. Nagini, undisturbed, hissed and took refuge under the black-draped bed. The new light source was enough to throw the outlines of everything in the chamber into sharp relief without actually revealing anything at all. Snape could now make out the Dark Lord's profile, though his features were lost, like a child running a hand over the surface of a lake. Nothing was distinct.

The whispering voice replied, "Do you believe in Hell, Severus?"

Snape's eyes widened. He'd never heard the Dark Lord speak of the afterlife, simply because Tom Riddle, Jr., had assured himself that he was immortal. It was what he coveted most.

"I do not, my Lord," said Snape through his teeth. "I believe there is nothing left for us when we pass on . . . not even . . . for the purest of souls . . . ." He swallowed thickly and waited for his Lord's answer.

"Really? Curious." The Dark Lord sat himself on a regal old chair. "Not even for her? Your precious Lily?"

"That Mudblood? She was merely a fling, my Lord." Snape curled his hands into vice-tight fists.

"Of course. A noble wizard like yourself could never dirty your hands with that . . . filth . . . ." He gasped for breath suddenly, overcome by some pain. Then he continued. "Why have you come, Severus?"

"The Order of the Phoenix reconvened in the castle earlier this evening," said Snape. "They suspect something is afoot. Are they wrong in doing so?"

There were several beats of silence. "You do not believe in Hell? Nor Heaven?"

"No, my Lord." Snape's palms were clammy. The insistence regarding the otherworld began to worry him.

"Angels and demons mean nothing to you?" When he shook his head no, the Dark Lord went on, "What of . . . something in between?"

"I . . . I do not follow, my Lord."

"Of course, of course . . ." The Dark Lord's mannerisms became more agitated; he stood from the chair and paced the floor. "Please, understand! Angels of Heaven, angels of Hell, mortal men, yes? But . . . if these beings were _combined_ somehow, what would happen? Tell me, Severus!"

The Potions Master's black eyes widened. He was frightened by the turn of the conversation. "I know nothing of these things, my Lord. I am not religious ―"

"LOOK AT MY FACE!" the Dark Lord roared. The silver flames reared, then flared red, finally casting illumination over the room. Severus gasped and stumbled back.

The pale skin of the Dark Lord's body was now running with rivers of veins, purple and pulsing, pushing something darker than blood through him. It was grotesque and inhuman, and Snape felt like he'd taken the opposite of a Pepper-Up Potion, the Squirmy-Stomach Potion, an unpleasant brew he didn't teach to his classes.

The Dark Lord's livid red eyes glowed brightly. "_This _is what happens, Severus! _This _is the abomination, the wretched offspring of a demon and a mortal!"

Snape had no words. Nothing could express his disgust, or his horror.

"Don't you see, Severus? I have made ― a grave mistake ―" He screamed in pain and clutched at his heart. "The darkness, Severus! _The darkness! _You cannot love with this hateful poison inside of you, it is ― not ― _done_!"

"My Lord!" gasped Severus as the Dark Lord ripped his wand from inside his robes.

_"It is _her _fault!" _he screamed. The yew wand's tip shone briefly. "The indecision ― the pain ― I WILL KILL HER!"

The Dark Lord moved as if to charge past Snape, but then his demeanor shifted entirely; the wand slipped from between his pale fingers and dropped to the ground. He fell to his knees, a broken shell of a man, and gripped his scalp. "I cannot, Severus," he moaned. "I cannot harm her . . . ."

Snape shook with fright at the sight of the Dark Lord, not knowing whether or not to flee. The decision was made for him.

"Go, Severus. Go away from this place . . . ."

And Snape did.

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy did not like the feeling inside of him at that moment. The letter from his father was folded neatly and tucked into his perfectly pressed shirt pocket, and the common room was empty at the moment. It was just Draco and the eerie green light of the lake. He read the letter over again, trying to find a solution within its words.<p>

_Draco, _

_Stay at Hogwarts for the holidays this year. I cannot say why in this letter, and I cannot come to visit before that time. The Dark Lord is restless. Say nothing of this, and when you have read this letter, burn it and throw the ashes in the lake. _

_Your mother is safe. Aunt Bella forced her to go into hiding, though she did not tell us why. I am at the Manor by myself; I go to Grimmauld Place for meetings regularly. Uneasiness is stirring in the Underground. _

_Keep your head down, and if you see anything suspicious, write me _immediately. _The war is upon us. They will expect you to join us soon . . . I will not be able to refuse them. I hope that the battle will be over before then._

_Your father, Lucius_

Draco's face twisted. Something was happening out there, something too important or too dangerous for Father to write down, even with the enchantments placed on the parchment. Or maybe Father didn't even know.

_The Dark Lord is restless. _What did that mean? Draco had met the Dark Lord only once, at the start of the summer holidays. He had come to Malfoy Manor to congratulate Lucius and Narcissa, welcoming them back to the ranks. Draco remembered the fear he'd felt, merely being in his presence. He hated the feeling.

"And they want me to be like them," he whispered. "A Death Eater."

He groaned in frustration and took off his school robes, his green-and-silver tie, and his blazer. The common room's fluffy black couch greeted him. He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and leaned his head back, eyes fixed on the low-hanging ceiling.

Draco should have been proud. Should have been honored. Since he was old enough to hear the stories about the glory of the Death Eaters, he'd wanted more than anything to become one. His father had always sighed and ruffled his hair. "You'd have to be a grown wizard, Draco. And besides, Harry Potter vanquished the Dark Lord years ago . . . ."

He'd hated Harry Potter from then on. In his mind, Harry Potter was a little devil-child with wickedly pointed teeth and red eyes. And then he'd met Potter in Madam Malkin's. The boy was normal, more normal than Draco. They'd almost become friends. But then, he hadn't known that boy was Potter.

First impressions stuck, though. Draco's young, naïve mind had decided to befriend Harry Potter, make him see sense. Maybe they could be Death Eaters one day. Potter had blown him off, and Draco had realized the world was a lot colder than he'd thought, and he had to get a little colder to catch up with it. . . .

For four years, he'd made Potter feel his anger. The anger that he might never be the son his father wanted, the proud follower of the Dark Lord. He wanted Potter to know that he'd destroyed the life he'd wanted before he'd had a chance to taste it.

And then he'd seen what Death Eaters were _really _like. They weren't a club of wise witches and wizards that stood up for Pure-bloods, but a cult that wanted to see all the Muggles and Mudbloods die at their feet. Draco swallowed his doubt and tried to make himself enjoy their company.

But the doubt lingered. It grew in the pit of his stomach, and on nights like this, in the deserted common room, it clawed its way up Draco's spine and settled in his mind. He hated it. He wanted to be what he was before the Dark Lord's return, and at the same time, he thought he'd kill himself if he did.

He folded his hands over his silver-gray eyes and groaned again. Suddenly, the door to one of the dormitories opened. He looked up, expecting Crabbe or Goyle, and saw Daphne Greengrass walk forward tentatively. She was wrapped in an oriental nightgown.

"Draco," she said quietly. "You need to sleep."

"Can't sleep," he mumbled.

She pushed strands of red-blonde hair back and sat next to him with her head on his chest. He wasn't bothered by the close contact. The Greengrass family lived in a manor much like his own, just down the lane. He'd known Daphne for several years before coming to Hogwarts.

"What's wrong?"

Draco rolled his head away from her prying blue eyes and breathed deeply. "My father wrote me."

She frowned. "What's that have to do with it?"

"He said things are bad back home," he answered. "Really bad. Bad enough that he wants me to stay here during the holidays."

"Is it about _Him_?" she whispered.

He nodded. She patted his knee in understanding. Daphne was well aware of Draco's struggles, and his shame. Her own father was in the circle of Death Eaters, though he didn't expect her to become involved like they did Draco.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "It was always coming to this. I'm Lucius Malfoy's son ― I was born into this life . . . ."

Daphne sat up and crossed her arms. "You don't have to be like them, if you don't want to. I don't want to, and Father said that's fine."

"It's different. The Dark Lord knows my family, he's met me. He's waiting for me to ask for the Dark Mark."

"Then run away! I don't want you to be one of them, you're not supposed to be a Death Eater!" She felt tears brimming in her eyes, but she blinked them away, because proud, Slytherin girls didn't cry.

His jaw locked. "They'll find me, no matter where I go. My father would spend every dime he had to find me. And I couldn't do that to my mother."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Draco."

"It doesn't." He sat up determinedly. "I'll find a way."

Daphne took that as a dismissal and moved to stand up, but the sight of Draco's face, pale and decided, made her heart hurt. She brushed his cheek with her lips and disappeared up the stairs to the girls' dormitory before he could say anything.

Draco's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He cupped a hand to the spot where she'd kissed and slowly picked up his discarded garments, drifting up the boys' stairs. His mind whirled. He stayed awake for a while longer that night, thinking about why in the world she had done that, and whether she'd do it again.

* * *

><p>Harry grinned broadly as he bounced down the marble staircase, the Firebolt over one shoulder. His spirits were high whenever he headed down to the Quidditch pitch. Wood's techniques were really working, and he was anxious to play Slytherin in a few days. The snakes didn't even know what was coming for them.<p>

The whole team had assembled on the pitch. He carefully avoided Ron's eye and kicked off, enjoying the wind rushing through his hair.

"FRED! GEORGE! Get over here!"

The twins zoomed over to where their captain was hovering. "Dopplebeater Defense. Get in position."

Fred and George grinned and flew off, bats poised. Angelina released the Impedimenta Jinx she'd placed on the Bludger. Harry paused to watch the twins. The Dopplebeater Defense was always a treat to see, and he knew the crowd would go wild over it.

The Bludger roared forward. Fred and George spaced their brooms a few feet and faced it, laughing. The Bludger neared ever closer and when it was feet away, Fred and George swung their bats and slammed them into the leather ball. The force of two bats had an amazing effect. The Bludger rocketed down the pitch and hit a tree in the Forbidden Forest, hard enough that the roots of the tree were unearthed and it leaned over at a forty-five degree angle.

The Gryffindor team cheered. Fred and George raised their bats like kings and began parading around, thanking the team graciously. Harry noticed Hermione walk onto the pitch and sit down in the stands to watch the practice.

Angelina called the team around her. "Alright, alright. The twins are amazing. But this practice isn't over yet. Potter, I want to see that Wronski Feint!"

Harry's face fell. He had managed to master the Plumpton Pass in their third practice, but the Wronski Feint was more of a challenge. He couldn't help it; no matter his natural ability as a flyer, he couldn't shake the horrible feeling in his gut when he shot to the ground. Every time, he backed out of the dive.

He turned the broom handle up and climbed until he was high above the pitch. He prepared for the one-hundred-and-eighty degree drop, breathing deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shining brightly in the stands.

A surprised laugh escaped his lips when he saw Hermione's poster. A little golden lion was bewitched onto the surface, and it pranced around and roared now and then. In blinking red letters, the poster said,

YOU CAN DO IT, HARRY! SHOW THAT WONKY-FAINT OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED WHO'S BOSS!

Harry heard the team cheering and laughing below. He smiled and waved to her, then gripped the Firebolt tightly. _They believe in you. Just do it._

He threw himself forward and placed all of his weight on the broom. The world blurred as he hit unimaginable speeds, his hair and his robes flapping behind him. They would have been hanging limply if not for the wind force.

The ground came closer and closer, but he didn't budge. Hermione's sign was still blinking in his field of vision. It spurred him on like a war drum. He could now see the short grass of the pitch rippling in his wind, and he felt the unbearable instinct to pull up. The lion on the sign roared again.

_Now! _Harry left the dive at the very last second. He was so close to smashing into the ground that he felt his heels brush the grass, but he'd survived. The Gryffindor team cheered again.

He laughed in triumph and soared back to them. "Well done, Harry!" Alicia Spinnet yelled.

They all patted him on the back, even Ron. The redhead's awe was enough to put aside his feelings for a moment. "Bloody hell!"

Harry smiled at them all and suddenly, he couldn't wait for the Slytherin-Gryffindor match: not because he knew Gryffindor was a sure-fire win, but because he wanted to pull the Wronski Feint on Malfoy more than anything.

* * *

><p>Hermione chose the most secluded corner of the library to continue her research. It was late in the afternoon, and the Gryffindor team (after applauding her for inspiring their Seeker) had hit the showers. She'd slipped away up the drive back to the castle. If what she was trying to accomplish was going to work at all, she needed to invest more time.<p>

Madam Pince had eyed her when Hermione had shown her Professor McGonagall's note. _I, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Teacher, grant Miss Granger permission to enter and check out materials from the Restricted Section. _

Hermione wasn't offended by the scrutiny. She, along with Harry and Ron, had given every staff member in the school every reason to be suspicious. They were notorious ― after finding the Philosopher's Stone in their first year, brewing Polyjuice Potion in their second year, helping convicts escape in their third year, and the Triwizard Tournament business in their fourth year, she'd be reluctant to give any of the three Gryffindors any tools for mischief such as this as well.

_Which makes me wonder . . . what we'll get into this year._

"Only God knows," she murmured to herself as Madam Pince unlocked the gates of the Restricted Section. There were no lanterns or windows in the dim section of the library, forcing her to cast the Lumos Charm.

She walked slowly between the tall shelves with wand aloft. She was expecting something to jump out at her any minute, because the Restricted Section housed horrible books that enjoyed scaring children.

Hermione made it to the Alchemy section without being too frightened (though a mouse scuttling along a shelf had made her jump a foot in the air). Very few books on Alchemy were featured. She took the book Professor McGonagall had recommended (_Alchemy: The Artwork_) and then kept searching the titles. The Transfiguration professor had warned her that advanced Alchemy was not to be meddled with, and it took many years to master the intermediate Alchemy she was studying now. She ignored the warning.

Under other circumstances, Hermione would have obediently strayed away from more challenging texts. But she saw potential in Alchemy. Very, very few wizards knew anything about it. The Ministry of Magic, some six hundred years ago, had always had a Head Alchemist. Then there'd been a decline in the subject and in her day and age, there were literally no skilled Alchemists on the planet.

_That _was why she was interested. It was almost a secret weapon, because quite honestly, she doubted Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters knew anything about Alchemy. And if she could possibly manage to ―

She cut herself off. She didn't exactly want to think about that particular idea, the secret she'd been keeping from Harry, because it seemed near impossible. Hermione usually prided herself in believing anything was possible, but this was different. Until she was at least forty percent sure it could work, she wasn't going to mention anything.

Hermione pulled _Alchemy: An Artwork _and carefully stowed two much, much older tomes in her bag. Madam Pince would never notice they were gone.

**So, we got a little look at Hermione's "secret". I liked the Draco and Daphne bit, too. Voldie's being a creeper as usual . . . Poor Snape. Anyway, review! Or I'll sic Snape on you!**

**Snape: Ten points from Ravenclaw.**

**(Jerk! Go Smart Kids)**


	8. The Dream

**Very few reviews . . . hmph. Shameful. I'm going to have to use an Unforgivable. **_**Imperio!**_

Unsurprisingly, Harry woke up at the crack of dawn the morning of the Slytherin match. He threw off the bedclothes and began frantically gathering his Quidditch gear, robes, and his Firebolt. Ron snored loudly. Harry almost yelled at him, but a glance at his watch told him that the Weasley wouldn't take kindly to being woken before five o'clock in the morning.

Harry dressed in the common room and strapped on his pads. He was anxious to get back on the pitch, but seeing as the entire Gryffindor team was still asleep, it wouldn't do much good. Harry used his Broomstick Servicing Kit on the Firebolt for nearly an hour. When he'd polished and trimmed every inch of it, he replaced the contents of the kit and let the Firebolt hover in the corner.

Slowly, the Gryffindor team trickled down from the dormitories, grim determination on their faces. Harry knew that, statistically, Gryffindor had much better chances of winning. Their strategies were superior. But still, the pre-Quidditch nerves surfaced and made the seven players jittery.

Angelina decided to give their pregame pep-talk in the common room. "Chins up, team! We've got the advantage. Our three Chasers are the best in the league, we've got a phenomenal Keeper, our Beaters are a force to be reckoned with, and our Seeker is nearly undefeated. This game is in the bag!"

They stood in a circle and every player put his or her wand arm forward. "For Godric!" (This was the chant that Fred and George had started at a match a few years back, and it had stuck.)

The team collected their broomsticks and left the common room just as a few students began to come downstairs. Fred and George broke the silent morning with a loud chorus of the Hogwarts school song. "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, teach us something please . . . !"

They passed Professor McGonagall on the way to the Great Hall. On any other day, the strict Transfiguration professor would have given them all detention for disrupting the quiet, but she wanted the match to be a victory for her house more than she wanted to bother them. She winked and carried on.

Harry sat down with the team and began to pile his plate. He didn't want his stomach growling on the pitch, because, according to Katie, she'd gotten a hunger cramp once in her second year and almost fell off her broom.

The Slytherin team filed into the Hall then, sporting green Quidditch robes and Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They purposely walked over to the Gryffindor team with nasty looks on their faces.

"Look here," growled Graham Montague, the captain. "You'd better tell Madam Pomfrey to set up seven beds in the Hospital Wing, courtesy of the Slytherin Quidditch team."

The Slytherins began to laugh and jeer at the joke. Harry didn't pay attention to them; he had noticed Draco Malfoy in the back, looking very surly and leaning heavily on his broom. He didn't seem very interested in what was going on.

Fred countered, "We'll make sure to return the favor, Montague. Maybe we'll let you _look_ at the Quidditch cup when we win it this season.

The Slytherins scoffed and moved off to the other side of the Hall. Harry finished his breakfast quietly and couldn't help thinking that if he caught the Snitch before Malfoy, it wouldn't be much of a victory.

Most of the school had already settled in the Great Hall when the Gryffindor team was standing up to leave. As they made their way up the Hall, the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and some of the Ravenclaws cheered wildly for them. The Slytherin table erupted in a chorus of jeers and insults.

Harry walked confidently down to the pitch and into the locker rooms. Angelina reminded them of which moves to try and when they should be used. "Potter! If the Slytherins somehow score enough to win if you catch the Snitch, use the Plumpton Pass. Break."

The thunder of voices and footsteps entering the pitch roared above them. Lee Jordan could be heard announcing from outside.

"It's a beautiful day on the pitch today, the weather is perfect for some flying, and after a long, monotonous two months of schooling, we want to see some Quidditch!"

The crowd screamed in response.

"I said, WE WANT TO SEE SOME QUIDDITCH!"

The assembly of students cheered and roared and stomped until Harry thought his ear drums had been punctured. He wrapped a hand around his Firebolt and grinned.

"Now, let's see our teams! From Gryffindor, we've got . . . Johnson! Bell! Spinnet! Weasley! Weasley! Weasley! Potter!"

The stands ― particularly the Gryffindor section ― went wild. Harry saw Hermione next to Neville, holding up a new sign. LIONS FOR THE CUP! (I THINK! OR IS IT A MEDAL?)

"And on the Slytherin team, we have Graham IQ-of-24 Montague ― okay, okay! It won't happen again, Professor! The captain is followed by Pucey, then Warrington, then Crabbe, then Goyle, then Bletchley, and now Malfoy."

The teams faced each other on the center of the pitch. Madam Hooch put a whistle in her mouth and gestured for Angelina and Montague to shake hands. They did, though Montague pulled his hand back roughly, nearly dislocating her shoulder. The Weasley twins nearly jumped him, but Madam Hooch ignored them and blew the whistle. They rose into the air.

Madam Hooch released the Bludgers and the Snitch, the latter of which disappeared into midair. Then she took the Quaffle in both hands and threw it high into the air. Lee Jordan's stream of commentary began.

"We're off to a fast start, with Spinnet of Gryffindor in possession of the Quaffle. She's weaving through like an arrow now, Slytherin can't touch her! Going ― going ― she shoots ― and Bletchley saves. Damn. Warrington in possession now, and what's this? The Weasley twins are gearing up for something. The Bludger's coming at them and ― I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! THEY JUST PERFORMED THE DOPPLEBEATER DEFENSE!"

The crowd ooh'd as the Bludger soared and hit Warrington in the middle of the field. He was ripped from the broom and began to fall, though Madam Hooch used a Hover Charm to suspend him. The Quaffle continued to fall until Angelina zipped out of nowhere and caught it in the crook of her elbow.

"And Johnson is off! She's nearing the scoring area, and ― well done! A perfect Porskoff Ploy to Bell!" Lee laughed as, on the pitch, Angelina dropped the Quaffle twenty feet into the outstretched hands of Katie Bell.

"Bell is heading into the scoring area! Wait, what is she doing . . . ?"

Katie began to fly in a quick zigzag motion. The stands erupted in applause as Lee announced with awe that she was using the Woollongong Shimmy, a move used to confuse the opposing team.

"The Gryffindor Lions continue to amaze us today and ― Bell scores! Ten-nothing Gryffindor!"

The scarlet section of the stands whooped. Lee's commentary picked up again, this time anticipating a Gryffindor surprise. "Bletchley puts the Quaffle back in play, with Theodore Nott taking over for Warrington. Montague in possession of the Quaffle. Bell is getting close now ― THAT'S COBBING!"

Harry, on the southern edge of the pitch, booed with the spectators. Montague had clearly elbowed Katie in the side of the head. Madam Hooch gave the slightly wobbly Katie the penalty; she scored.

"Twenty-nothing Gryffindor! Pucey in possession, he's flying fast now! Johnson and Spinnet are closing in! But Goyle is coming in too ― BLAGGING! Madam Hooch, he's blagging!"

It was true. Goyle had leaned forward and wrapped his two meaty hands around the tails of Angelina's and Alicia's brooms, dragging them backward. Madam Hooch gave a penalty shot to both; two goals were allotted to Gryffindor.

"Yeah, bastards, it's forty-nothing. This match is starting to look like the Gryffindor-Slytherin final two years ago. We can expect to see a lot more fouls!"

Harry circled the pitch again, but the Snitch had yet to be seen. Malfoy was also looking for the Snitch, but his heart wasn't in it; he drooped on his broom and barely turned his head.

"Pucey has the Quaffle again; he's heading down the pitch. No one's stopping him ― he's in the scoring area! Let's see how Gryffindor's new Keeper Ron Weasley handles goals."

Harry was also interested. He watched Pucey streak forward, waiting for Ron to make a move. The Keeper shifted on the broom. One ankle and one hand curled around the broom, and he pulled back until he was entirely vertical, guarding more of the goalpost than ever before. Pucey had already tossed the Quaffle, and it bounced off of Ron's chest. Alicia slipped under and caught it.

Lee Jordan and the crowd were going wild again. "Amazing! Weasley just pulled off the Starfish and Stick! This is the best Quidditch match I've ever seen!"

Crabbe and Goyle stormed forward and hit the two Bludgers at Ron. The young Weasley, who'd been holding the vulnerable pose for the crowd's benefit, took one to the shoulder and the other to a certain place below the waist. He doubled over and nearly fell off the broom. One hand shot up and held on tightly, so he was dangling fifty feet up.

"FOUL! Madam Hooch, you know that Beaters aren't allowed to hit a player in no contact with the Quaffle!"

Another penalty was given to Gryffindor. Angelina scored and the game reached fifty-nothing, Gryffindor.

"Slytherin Captain Montague just called a time-out ― probably can't deal with how poorly his team is playing ―"

"Jordan . . . ," came the menacing voice of Professor McGonagall.

"Sorry, professor!"

Harry touched down on the grass and jogged to the sideline. Angelina gathered them around.

"Well done, all of you. Potter, just catch the Snitch, don't try anything flashy if you don't need to. I don't want Slytherin to make good on their promise to put us all in the Hospital Wing."

He nodded and straddled the broom. Across the pitch, he could see Montague yelling at Malfoy. Clearly, the Slytherin Captain wasn't happy with his Seeker's progress.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and they took to the air again. Harry stopped paying attention to the game and combed for the Snitch. Malfoy had been changed by Montague's talk, because he was searching intently for the Snitch. It was now or never.

The Slytherin team in general had become more vicious. Their fouls were becoming more and more frequent, judging by the number of penalties Gryffindor had been given. The Gryffindor team had also resorted to violence; Fred had already smashed Crabbe's knee with his bat twice. Ron had been forced to punch Pucey in the jaw, because if he hadn't, the Chaser would have thrown the Quaffle right in Ron's face.

Harry knew exactly why the Slytherin team was instigating so many fouls. When the teams lined up and allowed the selected Chaser to take their penalty shot, Malfoy (and Harry) would be free to look for the Snitch without distraction.

Angling his broom up, Harry slowly circled the game. He hadn't seen a glimmer of the Snitch.

Lee Jordan was outraged in the box. "The bastards! Alicia Spinnet is now leaving the game due to an _unprovoked_ foul by Slytherin's Nott. Johnson taking the penalty shot . . . it's good. The score is now ninety-ten, Gryffindor."

Katie swept past Harry with the Quaffle tucked under her arm. "CATCH THE SNITCH, HARRY!" she screamed, just as a Bludger narrowly missed her shoulder.

He almost yelled back to her when the faintest glint of gold flickered directly below him, a few feet off the ground. He didn't think. His broom nearly dove of its own accord, and suddenly, the roar of the crowd deepened, then fell silent as he rocketed to the earth. He saw Malfoy swooping after him. Harry gritted his teeth and silently hoped he'd be able to pull off the Wronski Feint, flatten Malfoy, and grab the Snitch all at the same time.

He stuck out his right arm. His fingers closed the distance between the Snitch and himself, but he couldn't even tell if he'd caught it; the wind and the chill had made him entirely numb.

"IT'S THE WRONSKI FEINT! HE'S DOING THE WRONSKI FEINT!"

With a tremendous effort, Harry dragged his broom handle upward and flew over the heads of some Hufflepuffs. He had survived the venture. Malfoy, who was a very good flyer, had managed to ungracefully tumble to the ground. His broom kept going and lodged itself in the ring of sugar-white sand that circled the pitch.

The crowd ooh'd as Malfoy hit the grass, then seemed to remember that Harry had been after the Snitch. Harry himself had forgotten in light of his triumph. He looked down at his still-outstretched hand and watched the delicate, white-gold wings of the Golden Snitch flutter in his palm.

He raised his arm with a broad grin on his face. The cheers of the audience were deafening, but through it all, Lee Jordan's voice could be heard. "POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH! The score is two-hundred-and-forty to ten! GRYFFINDOR WINS!"

Angelina, Katie, Fred, George, Alicia's replacement Demelza Robins, and even Ron ambushed him. The Gryffindor stands were in a victorious uproar; the little lion on Hermione's sign roared so loudly that Parvati Patil clapped her hands over her ears and promptly fainted. She was loaded onto a stretcher next to Alicia Spinnet.

The Gryffindor team touched down. Harry enjoyed having ground under his feet again for a moment, but then the Gryffindor house swarmed onto the pitch and carried them all the way back to the castle.

"We're here, let me down!" Harry shouted at the mob. They ignored him and continued up the marble staircase, to the seventh floor, and finally into the Gryffindor common room.

Fred and George had somehow escaped their captors and now stood at the head of the common room. The mob quieted enough to allow them to speak.

"We had anticipated a victory," began Fred.

George added, "So, of course, we stocked up on provisions."

Someone laughed, and a few whooped.

"And so ―"

"― Drink up!"

The Weasley twins Summoned a huge crate from behind the couch. Fred leaned over and used the Reductor Curse on its lid; splinters of wood blasted apart and revealed bottles upon bottles of butterbeer.

A general cheer of excitement rose. As Harry took the "ceremonious" first bottle, passed a second to Angelina, and a third to Hermione, he couldn't help but put Voldemort out of his mind for a while.

* * *

><p>"Severus is missing, Albus," McGonagall said solemnly. The euphoria from the Quidditch match earlier had faded.<p>

The Headmaster kept his back to her. His eyes combed the grounds of the school, half expecting to see the bat-like black cape of the Potions Master. "It is as I feared, then."

"What ― what did you fear?"

Dumbledore turned slowly from the window and fell, as if tired, into his chair. "Lord Voldemort has lost the very last shreds of his mind."

Minerva gasped and also fell into a seat. "Albus!"

"You and I know well that Tom Riddle does not make decisions without great strategy and planning. Murdering Severus Snape is the most foolish thing he could have done. He cut off all information from Hogwarts."

"Unless there is another informant we don't know of . . . ?" Minerva wrung her handkerchief in her hands.

"I only hope not. But I have doubt that Severus is dead. He may be in hiding, or he hasn't been able to report back. The only reason in both of these situations would be that Voldemort's instability grows worse."

Minerva retrieved her wand from her robes. "Should I send for the Order?"

"Not yet." Dumbledore rose from his chair and strode to Fawkes' stand. Stroking the phoenix, he added, "There are others who must know of this, before the Order. . . ."

Minerva didn't understand who the Headmaster was referring to, so she bid him goodnight and made the long, lonely walk back to her study.

* * *

><p>Luna Lovegood had waited until the whole common room had emptied out before taking out her paints. It had been a long wait, considering the many Ravenclaws who had spent their Saturday nights reading everything they could get their hands on. But they had left. That was what mattered.<p>

Luna positioned a canvas on her easel and lined up her paints in a secret order. No one really knew what it meant, because they thought the order was random. She knew what it meant, though. No one else, really.

She shuddered at the dream she'd had the night before. It was at Hogwarts, of course. There were black-cloaked Death Eaters around every corner. One by one, all her new friends fell prey to them: Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, even Hermione Granger. Then some people she didn't know very well at all were killed; people like Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini.

The dream had shifted then, unknotting itself and then retying the strands of its own pseudo-reality into a different place. She was in the Headmaster's office. Instead of the large portrait of former Headmaster Dippet, six new portraits were adorning the wall behind the grand desk. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Blaise. The last one was empty.

They were wizard portraits. Ron's was the first to speak. "Run away, Luna! They'll just come back and kill us all."

"We're already dead, blood traitor," snarled a solemn-faced Blaise.

The portrait of Hermione, on the far left, shushed them. "It's not over. This is just the beginning."

Draco's handsome, pale face turned toward her. "Stupid Mudblood, you'll never learn. It was over the moment he drank the blood."

"Stop talking, all of you," said Harry's portrait. "Luna, it's never over. As long as there are people fighting, people standing up, this war's not over."

"Keep fighting. Keep standing up." She nodded slowly. A few questions came to mind, because she felt like this would never happen again, but the door was blasted apart behind her. A troop of Death Eaters smashed their way inside, and wands trained themselves on her, and green light filled her vision. The green light turned black.

Finally, she opened her eyes again. She was in a portrait now. Luna Lovegood was now just the last painting on the Headmaster's wall. She blinked, and when her eyes opened again, the orderly office was now strewn with debris and rubble. The wall across from them, along with half the castle, had been blown away by some great and terrible magic. Fires raged along the dusty floors.

"Welcome to Hell," said Blaise. And the dream had ended.

Luna had been deeply shaken by the dream, which wasn't like her at all. She often found that the world was slightly detached from her, or maybe she was detached from the world. But that was fine.

The dream had stuck in her mind until she'd opened the Book of Records in the library and found her family tree. She'd feared that if there were a Seer in her family somewhere, the dream would be prophetic. She found a great-great-great-great-uncle of hers named Constantine Luda. In small letters next to his name, someone had printed _Seer_.

Luna turned to the first canvas and rolled a long, simple black streak across the surface. Then another. And another. Within an hour, Harry Potter's entire head and shoulders were finished. She painted the backdrop a pretty dark crimson.

It was almost four o'clock in the morning. Eyes drooping, Luna methodically cleaned her brush and stashed her paints in the old wooden box on the mantle of the fireplace. She pointed her wand at the cluster of still-wet portraits and whispered, _"Locomotor Paintings."_

Luna cautiously directed the floating portraits up the girls' stairs and into her dormitory. The other girls were asleep, so she let the canvases fall to her bed and yanked the hangings shut. She took the bedspread from the single empty bed in her dormitory (there were only four girls in fourth year Ravenclaw) and dragged it down to the star-studded couch in the common room. And she slept.


	9. The Compromise

**Okay, you guys suck. I have 29 people that added this story to their favorites, so there's got to be at least 29 people that like it, yet I only have TWELVE reviews. Yes, I know it's annoying when authors complain about reviews, but seriously. If we don't think anyone will like it, we definitely don't feel like writing it. This is for **_**your **_**enjoyment. **

**Anyway, nice long chapter for you all after a long wait.**

* * *

><p>"<em>Protego!" <em>shouted Harry.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts class watched in silence as Harry and Malfoy performed their weekly duel. Professor Dumbledore, chin resting on his steepled fingers, also followed the battle closely.

Malfoy's curse rebounded and shattered the chandelier above them; glass tinkled and fell like rain around them, bouncing and skittering over the stage and into the laps of the spectators. Dumbledore still said nothing. He'd once told them that he would not stop any type of disturbance, to better stimulate a real, life-or-death wizard's duel.

_"Stupefy!" _Harry's spell flew half an inch wide of Malfoy's eye. The disgruntled Slytherin fired back a Stunning Spell of his own, just as Harry repeated the incantation. Both were thrown backward as the spells hit their targets, and just like that, the duel was over.

The usual claps filled the air. Harry and Malfoy slowly regained consciousness and rolled to the floor, the glass on the ground crunching under their feet. No one was surprised by the turn of events; sometimes Malfoy won. Sometimes Harry won. But mostly, they took each other down at the exact same time.

Dumbledore tapped his wand on his desk. The shards of glass and crystal, as if attracted to a magnet, reformed in midair and arranged themselves on the skeleton of the chandelier. The Headmaster stood and paced to the center of the long stage and smiled at them.

"A magnificent effort by both Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter. And on that note, I'd like to make an interesting announcement."

Harry glanced from side to side warily. Dumbledore's "announcement" about the Triwizard Tournament the year before had nearly cost him his life.

"The professors and I have cooked up a wonderful end of term treat: a school-wide duel. On the twenty-eight of May, we will begin the tournament, weeding out the fifth, sixth, and seventh year contenders in several rounds of preliminaries until there are two left for each grade level. On June 6th, the last three duels will be held. The winners will be awarded one hundred house points and ten Galleons each."

Exclamations of excitement and anticipation rang out. The Headmaster sighed. "However," he called, raising his voice over the jitters, "only a few competitors will be chosen, due to limited time. Your actions in class will decide whether you're in the running or not."

Neville brightened visibly; he'd been doing very well in his duels with Theodore Nott recently. Other students, like Seamus Finnigan, who were not doing very well, groaned.

"You are dismissed."

The students gossiped about who would be chosen as they gathered their items.

"It's only November," said Parvati Patil. "It could be anyone!"

Lavender Brown added, "But Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy will be there for sure. I wonder if Blaise Zabini will make it?"

Harry shrugged noncommittally whenever someone asked if he wanted to be in the Duel. To be honest, it seemed like another Triwizard ― just an excuse for Slytherins and the like to be particularly hateful.

"This is such rubbish," fumed Hermione. "Whatever happened to inter-House unity? It's like they _want_ us all to hate each other!"

They arrived in the Transfiguration Courtyard and crossed it. Professor McGonagall gave them an odd look as they entered her classroom.

"Good morning, students," she said briskly. "Today we will be looking into Human Transfiguration."

They gaped at her. Even N.E.W.T. students found Human Transfiguration difficult.

Dean Thomas whipped out his wand. "Alright! Can we turn Ron into a teacup?"

Professor McGonagall growled, "Put that away, Thomas! Human Transfiguration takes much more preparation than anything I've taught you before."

"But Professor," said an anxious Hannah Abbot. "Isn't Human Transfiguration supposed to be a seventh-year subject?"

McGonagall sighed. "Professor Dumbledore informed me that the students in O.W.L. year and above must be trained more excessively than ever before."

"Why?" said Ernie Macmillan. Some of his fellow Hufflepuffs gave him blank stares.

"Because of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Professor McGonagall snapped. "Now, open the _Guide to Human Transfiguration_ I've passed out to page three and read."

Harry swallowed and turned the pages of his new advanced text. The introduction was grotesque; the author had clearly forgotten that schoolchildren were reading.

"When done incorrectly, Transfiguring a human into a teacup can result in an explosion of gore and fine china that will likely injure and possibly kill anyone in its path," Dean whispered in awe. He shoved the book away when the detailed illustration began to loop in an endless slideshow of a young woman bursting in a shower of blood.

The class shuddered but soldiered on. The _Guide to Human Transfiguration _grew steadily more obscene, to the point where Susan Bones had to leave the classroom with a hand clapped to her mouth. Hermione was the only student without her face twisted in disgust. She was focused intently on the reading, one hand busily scratching words onto a piece of parchment. Harry was unconcerned; even though Professor McGonagall hadn't told them to take notes, it was a very Hermione-like thing to do.

They'd read two and a half chapters by the time class was dismissed. Harry rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, in the hopes that he could snuff out the gruesome memories of the period.

"Let's go," he said to Hermione, who was slowly repacking her bag. "I've got to get out of here."

"Go on without me. I need to speak to Professor McGonagall."

He nodded, yawned, and joined the crowd bottlenecking out into the courtyard. Harry followed the wall along the edge of the common. He was heading for the door leading to the first floor landing when he passed the Alchemy classroom, something he'd been curious about for some time. Harry melted into the shadow of the doorway and pulled the heavy slab of a door back to peek inside.

The Alchemy classroom was almost entirely bare, save for several complicated diagrams on the far wall. The stone floor was a breeding ground of odd circles. The round, complex oddities were of a glistening black paint. Diagonal lines sliced the circles into fourths, sixths, eighths. Tiny, alien symbols had been added just outside of the circles, where the diagonal lines ended.

"What are you doing?"

Harry let the door shut. Hermione stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing, just thought I saw something."

"Hm." She turned and walked away. He followed.

* * *

><p>Severus Snape watched the quaint Scottish town slumber from the middle of the black, silent road. It was freezing outside. He waved his wand over his hand and instantly felt the warmth of the Bluebell Flames he'd cast in his palm. Snape held the flames close to his face and traversed into the darkened village, focused on the task ahead.<p>

He smiled grimly to himself. Dumbledore and the Order would assume him dead or missing by now, which was exactly what he wanted. They couldn't know where he was going now. No one could know. The Dark Lord's sanity waned, and as it did, the tripwires that were now stringing themselves across the war itself were more and more likely to be snapped with a misplaced step.

Snape ducked into the shadow of a stone cottage as a trio of drunkards ambled past him, just back from the tavern up ahead. It was the only building with a light on.

Irked, he blew into his fingers, so that the blue flames danced into the air, coming apart like a sapphire flower in the wind. Snape shoved his still-warm hand into the pocket of his cloak. He was eager to leave, but well aware that everything he could do was vital at this point.

He continued, now choosing to walk the backsides of the buildings instead of the main road. He shivered. It was nearly December; the snow would be coming in a few weeks, that was certain.

After ghosting between the cottages for several minutes, he came to where the village gave way to a forest of pines, and, beyond the trees, a mountain range. Hogwarts was somewhere to the west of the mountains, he thought. It was hard to tell. But, for once in his long years, he did not intend to enter the castle grounds. He skirted the edge of the forest with wand in hand. He kept its tip trained on the tree line and murmured spells that revealed concealment.

A loud rustle sounded as one of his Charms took effect. The branches and undergrowth nearby shot back into the ground, clearing a footpath into the heart of the forest. Snape smirked and turned onto the path. Behind him, the foliage returned, as if there had never been a black-cloaked man with a wand in his hand.

The path was long, bumpy, and dark. Snape barely noticed. He was intently putting one foot in front of the other, desperate to reach his destination. The moonlight cut off abruptly when he stepped into a natural tunnel made by the branches on either side of him. His smirk widened as darkness settled over him, not slowing his pace. He was not to be deterred by a spooky bit of greenery.

The trees gave way to a bright clearing. In its center, a homely log cabin had been constructed, its chimney clear of smoke. It seemed deserted. Snape rolled his eyes at the less-than-satisfactory attempts to hide the cabin. Its owner had clearly not desired company, but then again, Snape didn't mind being an unwanted guest. Much bigger things were at stake.

Snape held his wand aloft and approached the front door. It was locked, opened by a simple _Alohomora_. He entered a quaint sitting room with no furniture, just a fireplace and a threadbare rug. Snape shouldered open a door across the room without giving the barren kitchenette a passing glance.

He found himself in a bedroom, completely bare save for another rug and velvet curtains on the windows. Snape frowned and moved to the window, his footsteps almost muffled by the rug. Then he noted something odd about the fifth step he took. The faint thud of his foot putting weight on the floorboards under the rug was hollow, not like the other steps he'd taken. _"Got you," _he whispered.

Snape silently removed the rug with a flick of his wand. He bent and knocked his fist against the floorboards, one after another.

_Thud . . . thud . . . thud . . . thud . . . clunk._

Snape tapped his wand on the fifth board. It rose into the air, revealing only darkness. He levitated the next five boards. He lit his wand and saw that an innocent trapdoor was situated in the gaping hole left by the missing floorboards. Another grin curled his mouth.

The Potions Master dropped into the hole and pulled the door back. A steep, curling staircase lit by unmoving flames in wall sconces greeted him. Snape descended. With one errant wave of his wand, the rug, floorboards, and trapdoor all regained their original positions.

The staircase let out in a dungeon of a room, all gray stone and chains. A decaying skeleton, held up only by the shackles on its wrists, grinned at him. An ancient doorway to his left invited him to a dark chamber.

Snape raised his lit wand ahead of him and stood in the doorway. He lifted his foot to get a better look when something surged out of the darkness and shoved him against the stone archway. The cold blade of a knife kissed his throat.

"State your business," a rough male voice growled. "And drop the wand."

Snape did as he was told. "I must speak with your leader, Thorne."

The voice barked a laugh. "He doesn't just hand out appearances. How'd you find us, anyway?"

"As I said, I must speak with Thorne."

The unknown man deliberated, then called to someone in the room, "He wants to talk with Thorne. What do you lot think?"

The lanterns in the room flicked on. Snape saw several bunks lined up against the walls, with lanterns strung along overhead. A final door was set into the wall across the room between two burly men. A group of rugged men were spread out in the room, some lounging on bunks and others standing or sitting on the ground.

A bearded man with a plaid shirt answered from his spot on the floor. "Doubt Thorne'll want to see him, I do." He paused to spit tobacco into a jar. "Yesterday woss a full moon, and he don' usually come out here after a full moon, eh, Russell?"

The young man holding the knife to Snape's throat nodded. "He did come all this way, though. Might as well ask."

One of the guards next to the door asked in a deep voice, "What's your name, there?"

"Severus Snape."

The guard turned back to the door and knocked. "Sir, there's a bloke named Severus Snape out here, asking for you."

There was a beat of silence. Then, "Let him in," from the other side of the door.

Snape was ushered into a dark chamber. He could make out a bed, which a man was sitting on, and nothing else.

"Mr. Snape," the voice purred. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I have . . . a request."

The man shifted, still cloaked in shadow. "I didn't know I came off as such a charitable man. But I don't see what you have to offer me. I'm quite comfortable here, hiding out from you wizard bastards with my pack."

"You're a wizard as well," said Snape. "No matter what you tell yourself."

Thorne stood abruptly. "It's not what I say. It's what you all say, because I'm a 'filthy werewolf.'"

"Oh, believe me, I know you're filthy," snarled Snape. "I won't pretend. I hate you and you hate me. But I also know you and your little pack would give anything to sink your putrid teeth into the wizards who exiled you. I can give you that opportunity."

"Oh?"

"The war is on the horizon. We need allies, powerful ones. And you need revenge. Surely we can reach some kind of agreement."

Thorne stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "It's a hard bargain. I do have power over many of the werewolves in the country . . . anyone would be clamoring to acquire my services." A grin spread across his face. "I would require payment."

"Name your price."

"Oh, I don't want gold," he hissed. "I don't get out much, believe it or not. But there is something that's always welcome in our modest wolf den."

Snape's eyes narrowed.

"I want new blood." Thorne laughed. "I want at least three new werewolves. Nothing less."

Snape slowly reached out and shook Thorne's hand.

". . . Agreed."

"Then run along. And if you try to go back on our deal. . . ." He twisted Snape's arm behind his back and threw him against the door. "I could always do with a snack."

* * *

><p>The old DADA classroom was a long room with stone walls and wooden floors. When you looked in from the corridor, rows of empty desks stretched to a large space in the back of the room. A blackboard occupied the space. Behind the board, a short half-spiral of stone steps led up to the teacher's office, which jutted out over the blackboard.<p>

"It's perfect," Harry mused to himself.

Since Hermione was still in class, Harry had taken it upon himself to survey their new base of operations. He left his bag on a desk near the door and weaved his way to the blackboard. It was still decorated with dusty words he couldn't make out. Harry trotted up the stairs and let himself into the office.

The first room was the main office. A bare desk and chair had been abandoned there, with nothing else in the room to hint at a previous owner. To the right was a smaller antechamber that must have been used for storage. The entire office must have been half the size of his dormitory.

Harry pulled the curtains shut and crossed back into the DADA classroom. Hermione had just arrived, a towering stack of books next to her.

"What's all that?" he asked warily.

"They're for studying," she replied. At the look on his face, she said, "Oh, come off it. You didn't expect to get anywhere by yourself, did you?"

He grumbled under his breath and came to look at her selections. _Secrets of Wandless Magic _by George Gengrin topped the pile. Underneath, he saw texts on wordless and intermediate magic.

Harry flipped through the first book. "Well, where do we start?"

Unsurprisingly, Hermione had a well-thought-out plan ready. "I suggest we start with nonverbal magic. It's less complicated than most of these, and very useful. After that, we can work on more advanced magic. Wandless magic is very difficult. We'll save it for last."

Harry opened _The Complete Guide to Nonverbal Spell Casting_ and read to himself.

_Chapter 1: Preparing for Nonverbal Spell Casting_

_ The art of using magic without saying an incantation is one of the most important skills a wizard possesses. It allows the caster to take their opponent completely by surprise. However, the mental discipline needed to succeed at this task is great. _

_ First, clear your mind of everything but the incantation of the spell you plan to cast. Picture the word spelled out in your mind's eye. Close your eyes if you have to. Then, imagine the effects of the spell. _

Harry did as instructed, shutting his eyes for good measure. He held out his wand and repeated the mantra _Wingardium Leviosa, Wingardium Leviosa _over and over in his mind. He imagined the book in front of him floating from the desk.

_Wingardium Leviosa! _With a final flick of his wand, Harry opened his eyes. The leather-bound book, levitating several inches in the air, greeted him with a ruffle of its pages.

"Ha!" He turned to Hermione. "I did it, first try!"

"Actually, you didn't," she said morosely. "You said the incantation out loud. Clearly, you didn't realize."

His face fell. "Oh."

"Um, good try?" she said supportively, with a small smile.

He just shrugged gloomily.

* * *

><p>Stormswift the hippogriff was a beautiful creature, with an ebony coat and orange eyes. His wings were silver on the undersides and black on their backs. A line of silver feathers were nestled in among the darker plumage from the crown of his head to the middle of his back, where his sleek coat began.<p>

And he was running.

The forest was too dense for him to take off. So he thundered over the shrubs and through the trees, all the while aware of the creature chasing him. He hadn't seen his pursuer; Stormswift had had his back turned when the attacker had crept up behind him. He'd only heard the feather-light footsteps.

Stormswift was one of the fastest inhabitants of the Forbidden Forest. He was quicker than every hippogriff in the Hogwarts herd, and most of the Acromantula. But this two-legged assailant was lightning fast. It was right on Stormswift's tail, cold fingers grasping for purchase.

Finally, reprieve. A clearing unfolded before them. Stormswift unfurled his eighteen-foot wings and flapped, generating enough wind-force to send the predator reeling back. Stormswift kept flying, heart jumping in his barrel-chest. As a hippogriff, he was rarely approached in a hostile manner. The action of the day had tired him.

Stormswift turned his head back as he climbed. He was too high in the sky to see the attacker clearly, but it was shaped like a human. He chirped to himself. The creature hadn't smelled human at all. He had caught whiffs of blood, metal and something darker. Stormswift's heart raced quicker at the thought.

Miles below, in the clearing, Luca DeGellari smiled to himself, sat down on the grass, and watched the hippogriff soar off into the night sky.

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><p><strong>Review! Or, if you have questions, I'll answer them. Interactive reading and all that jazz.<strong>


	10. The Signature on the Parchment

**Sorry this took so long. I've been trying to sort out the "ghost plots."**

**I am also shocked that none of you asked about the last segment of the chapter before this one.**

Bellatrix Lestrange stormed through the halls of Grimmauld Place, wand poised to curse the first Death Eater foolish enough to cross her warpath. She was livid. Eyes wild, she blasted open the only door on the fifth and final floor. The curtains were drawn inside. Antonin Dolohov and Rodolphus Lestrange were seated under the only light in the room, a swinging bulb, playing a card game. Behind them, the door to the Dark Lord's chambers loomed.

Rodolphus looked up in surprise. "Hello, love. Thought you went to see Narcissa."

"I _tried_," fumed Bellatrix, "only to discover she and Lucius packed their trunks and disappeared!"

Dolohov knocked over his glass of firewhiskey. "Does _he_ know?" He tipped his wand towards the spilled drink then at the Dark Lord's door.

"Of course not," Bellatrix hissed. She watched the firewhiskey dive back into the glass. "And he can't know." She flicked her own wand and instated Snape's handy _Muffliato _spell, just in case. "Which is why we're leaving. Tonight."

"What?"

"Not to run away, you fools! To find them. The Dark Lord is not well, as you know, and if he hears of this betrayal he'll do something we'll all regret."

Bellatrix smiled devilishly. "I've already planned it out, because we'll be doing something else on the way. If we succeed, the Dark Lord will accept us all home with open arms."

"What have you got in mind, love?" asked Rodolphus, an equally sinister smile on his face.

The woman carefully replaced her wand in her robes. "I've been to a Seer recently. She shared many interesting bits of information, with a little persuasion. But she mentioned something very troubling about the girl."

"What girl?" said Dolohov over the glass at his lips.

"The Mudblood that's friends with Potter and that Weasley brat. The Seer thinks she'll play her own little part in the war, but I'd rather take care of her now. Coincidently, winter holiday at Hogwarts starts a week from now. She'll be home with her Muggle parents."

Dolohov chuckled. "And no one to protect her."

"And when we tell the Dark Lord . . . ," Rodolphus hedged, arms crossed in content.

"He'll reward us for our efficiency," supplied Bellatrix. "Two Muggles and a Mudblood. No one will miss them."

Rodolphus passed her a glass of brandy, and the three toasted quietly to the disasters they would be averting if Bella's scheme worked. Then Bellatrix slammed her glass back to the table. "Be ready at dawn."

* * *

><p>"They're gone," Draco Malfoy told the wall across from the bed he was presently sitting on.<p>

The wall did not appear interested by this, and stayed still and silent the way only walls can. Draco returned his eyes to his father's latest letter. The first thing Draco noticed that was wrong about the letter was the plain, ugly barn owl that delivered it at breakfast, not his or his father's eagle owls. Later, as he was walking back to his dormitory before class, he thought the unopened letter in his shirt pocket felt much heavier than any envelope and slip of parchment should.

When Draco sat down on his bed to read it, he instantly jumped to a slight panic, because the Malfoy's unique wax seal wasn't present on the envelope. He ripped it open anyway. The torn scrap of parchment that tumbled into his lap had very few words on it. _Mother and I fled. Cannot say why. Stay near Dumbledore._

His father's handwriting wasn't its usual borderline-calligraphy, either, just a cursive scrawl. It wasn't signed.

Draco decided he wouldn't be attending classes and fell to his back on his bed. The crumpled note nose-dived to the floor, but he didn't care. He was, for all it was worth, an orphan. He was alone now.

The fifteen-year-old rolled over and snatched up the letter again. _Mother and I fled. _Fled where? He racked his brains. Where would Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy escape to when things were so bad they couldn't stay in the manor? That was the key ― it was very bad outside of the castle walls. But he couldn't come up with any logical place the Malfoys would go that didn't involve Death Eaters, which he assumed they were running from.

He dissected the next clipped sentence. Of course Father wouldn't say why he was leaving; that was for Draco to figure out himself. And if Lucius were to write "We're running away from the Dark Lord," the Death Eaters would torture and kill him without blinking. As long as no one but Draco knew why the Malfoys ran, Lucius could lie, make up some urgency he and Narcissa had to tend to, in the case that they're apprehended.

Finally, the last bit: _Stay near Dumbledore. _Rubbish. Like Draco would want to be near that old fool. But Lucius never did _anything _without giving it serious thought, and he wanted Dumbledore to have his eye on Draco, or maybe the other way around. Dumbledore was the only man Voldemort had ever feared. Could that be why? Protection? Of course. When the Death Eaters realized the Malfoys' disappearance they'd be out for blood. If they really wanted Lucius back, all they'd have to do was threaten his beloved son. . . .

Was he supposed to tell Dumbledore? The elderly Muggle-lover would never think to add special safeguarding to Draco in time. He was supposedly safe within the castle, but Death Eaters were ruthless in their pursuits. Come to think of it, Draco was a sitting duck. He angrily threw the letter at the ever-unresponsive wall. It landed on Blaise's bed.

He wished his parents had taken him with them. He would have been returning home for the holidays in just a few days ― then Lucius could have brought him along. Not that he wanted to be close to his parents at that moment, but because it would be so much simpler. Alone, he had to strategize and think, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

_Man up_, he thought. Draco stood and checked his wristwatch. He still had time to make it to Transfiguration. Silently, he refused to let himself fall apart. He was a Malfoy; he could handle it. Draco straightened his tie, smoothed his clothes, and ran a palm over his impeccably slicked hair. No matter what happened, he would take it all looking like a prince.

* * *

><p>Professor McGonagall came to the Gryffindor table just after breakfast with a scroll of parchment. It was the sign-up sheet for anyone who intended to stay over the winter holiday.<p>

"Are you going to stay?" Harry asked Hermione.

She contemplated this. "I thought I'd go see Mum and Dad, but . . ."

Professor McGonagall held up the scroll. "Last call!"

"Oh, alright." Hermione succumbed to Harry's pleading look and scrawled her signature on the parchment. "I suppose I'll see them in a few months, anyway."

She was wrong.

* * *

><p>When they arrived in Herbology Harry felt like he was being watched. He stared hard through the glass walls of the greenhouse and trained his eyes on the tree line, where he was almost positive someone was standing. He completely forgot about the busy work of potting the Fanged Geraniums, and in turn, received a nasty bite from the sharp-toothed flower.<p>

Later, on the trek back to the castle, he skimmed the edge of the forest with his eyes, certain now that someone was looking back. The feeling disappeared when he entered the safety of the castle walls. By the end of lunch, he had forgotten about the ordeal entirely.

**Approximately two weeks prior to Harry's discomfort, Number 12, Grimmauld Place**

Lord Voldemort was seated in his antique chair, facing the door, when his visitor arrived. The man was tall, thin, and draped in a fitted, high-necked black cloak with gold lining. He had chips-of-silver eyes and oil-black hair.

"Good evening, your Lordship," the young man purred, bowing low. "Thrilled to finally meet you."

The Dark Lord only smiled ― he was used to this kind of royal treatment. "No, it is I who is honored to meet you. I'm aware you have a vague idea of why I summoned you?"

"Very vague, actually."

"I require your services," the Dark Lord provided. "You and your clan will be valuable assets when the real battles begin."

The young man arranged himself with inhuman grace on a settee. "I imagine we would. But you aren't the first wizard to come to me for an alliance. This Order ― what do they call themselves? ― has sent me letters, promising me gold, positions in the Ministry, anything I could dream of if I fought for them."

"Yes, they have much to offer you," the Dark Lord agreed. "But I could give you so much more. I know what you really want ― members. Blood. The Order would never give you their precious wizards and witches, let alone those Muggles they adore. Side with me and I could bring you any human you desire."

The young man smirked. "There was one woman I would like a taste of. She showed me to the door ― I believe her name was Bellatrix."

Lord Voldemort kept his face calm. Inside, he raged and warred with himself. He wanted to take control of Magical Britain, and he would need the assistance of the Cheshire Cat in front of him. But could he really sign away _her_? For this?

Apparently he could.

"She's yours," he lied. When he became the lord of Britain, he assured himself that he would just kill the man before he got what he wanted.

In a flash, the young man was out of his seat. "Wonderful! I love a successful negotiation. I'll just be leaving, then."

"Just a moment," the Dark Lord hissed. "There's something I'd appreciate in the meantime. The boy ― Harry Potter ― is at Hogwarts. If one of your associates could keep an eye on him, I would be in your debt."

The young man fastened the top golden button of his cloak. "I'll take care of it personally."

He smiled once more. A whirl of movement followed, and a millisecond later, Lord Voldemort was alone. A rectangular business card had appeared on his lap. He picked it up and read the three words printed in looping cursive.

_Luca DeGellari._

_ Vampire._

* * *

><p>Hermione Granger thought she was alone in the library. It was nearly midnight, but because it was Friday night and her track record with Madame Pince was superb, the thin-boned librarian had allowed her to stay and study. Madame Pince had departed at just past ten. "If I suspect you've been in the Restricted Section," she'd warned as she closed the doors, "this will be the last time you see the inside of this library."<p>

About sixteen seconds later, Hermione took the key from the librarian's desk and opened the Restricted Section's wrought iron gates.

The Alchemy books she'd taken several weeks before were returned to their spots on the shelf. The two texts had been helpful, but not what she was looking for. She eased another advanced tome from the shelf just as someone stepped out from behind a tall bookcase to her left.

As you know, she had assumed the library was empty. To find it was not deserted came as quite a shock. The heavy book fell from her grasp and thudded to the floor; the figure silhouetted three feet away flicked his wand. The book zoomed back to its place.

"Late-night reading, Miss Granger?" Albus Dumbledore asked.

Hermione balked. She wasn't supposed to be anywhere near the Alchemy texts, let alone the Restricted Section itself. "Y-you could say that, yes."

Dumbledore smiled characteristically and took the now-returned tome in his long fingers. "Alchemy? Why, I wonder if you've looked closely at the author of this selection?"

He turned the cover toward her. She lifted her wand to read it. _By Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel. _

_Idiot! _she thought to herself. _Of course _Professor Dumbledore knew about Alchemy. She mentally kicked herself for thinking there wasn't a single man alive who was skilled in the subject, especially the old man in front of her.

"It was a wonderful read," she admitted, in the hopes she wouldn't sound terrified.

"I'm flattered. However, I also wonder why a bright young student would be interested in my works, even more so when her Head of House instructed her not to go near them?" He tilted his head in interest.

He interrupted her answer. "No need. I know now that Mr. Potter and yourself have been preparing for the worst, and I dare not forbid you. But I, like you, was once an inexperienced alchemist, and I too wanted to push the limits of my abilities."

"I wasn't ―"

His eyes twinkled in the darkness. "Most young alchemists are drawn to the idea that those who have left us can be raised from the dead."

She felt her hands drop to her sides. How had he known? Was it that obvious, her plan?

Professor Dumbledore gently replaced the book. "I spent many years searching for the secrets of life. After my sister's death, my goal was to bring her back through alchemy, my strongest subject. I traveled to Paris and studied with Nicolas Flamel himself. We discovered many great things; he showed me the formula for the Philosopher's Stone. But when I asked him about raising the dead, he made me see that it was impossible. I never tried to return a soul with alchemy. Do you know why, Miss Granger?"

She mutely shook her head.

"Because no magic, no matter the level of difficulty, nor the power, can take a life from the fist of death. Human men were born to live and die, not to live and die and live again. It is against nature. Magic, you will learn someday, is harmonious with the workings of the world, even the darkest facets of it."

His eyes looked past her, at something she couldn't and he didn't want to see. "I'll leave you now. I only beg that you forget about the Alchemist's Dream, as Mr. Flamel and I call it."

She nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

He tipped his hat to her and left her alone among the cobwebs and books.


	11. The Broken Bridge

**HEY! I NEED YOUR ATTENTION!**

**And now that I've got it, I'd like to give you something to think about. Honestly, the only pairings that are set in stone at this moment are Harry/Hermione and Draco/Daphne. I'm not even sure about Ron/Luna at this point.**

**With the plot accelerating, I don't have the time to consider side couples, so . . . why don't you all help me out? Review and tell me your favorite ship (I can accept slash). I might squeeze it in somewhere.**

**That being said, please enjoy.**

The Hogwarts Express was due to pull out of the Hogsmeade Station at exactly ten o'clock on Sunday morning, so Professor Dumbledore squeezed a final Hogsmeade visit in on that same Saturday. The students were excited to get their Christmas shopping done before the holidays. Harry, in particular, was more eager for the quiet. With most of the school gone Hogwarts was so much more enjoyable. He was looking forward to trekking through the fresh snow (it had fallen in a crisp white blanket Friday afternoon) to visit Hagrid, and sitting by the fire after the chill of the corridors.

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit, Harry overslept and was awoken by Neville sharply poking him in the forehead. "Come on then, Harry! You can't miss this trip, how else will you get your shopping done?"

He almost told Neville he didn't plan on much holiday shopping, but thanked him and put on his glasses instead. He dressed warmly and loaded his pocket with gold and silver. The common room was emptying out by the time he reached it, now comprised of stragglers and some older children who had seen Hogsmeade enough times to not care about attending every visit. He himself tired of it occasionally.

The walk to the Great Hall was frigid. Like most winters in the stone castle, this one had penetrated the walls and taken refuge in the unprotected corridors. Hagrid could be seen chopping down Christmas trees on the grounds through the frosted windows. The suits of armor were adorned with wreaths of holly and mistletoe, while Peeves floated overhead and threw rock-hard fruitcakes at the students.

Head Boy Dante and Head Girl Abigail stood near the Hall's doors, catching prefects on their way to breakfast. "Over here!"

Harry left Neville and joined the small band of prefects. Hermione, Malfoy, and Daphne Greengrass were already present.

"I think that's everyone," Abigail predicted.

Dante took the floor, as usual. "The Christmas holidays are coming up. We need to know who's staying."

In the end, Harry, Hermione, Malfoy, a Hufflepuff sixth year and a Ravenclaw seventh year were the only prefects staying, besides Abigail.

"That'll have to do, I suppose," the Head Boy decided. "After the Hogsmeade visit, I want everyone in the Great Hall to help with the decorations. You're dismissed."

The only touch of holiday cheer within the Hall was a bare tree near the staff table. Minutes later, Hagrid hauled a second fresh pine inside.

"Only ten more to go, Professor!" the Hufflepuff table cheered.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked Hermione, who was staring absently at the table.

"I'm fine," was her quiet, unconvincing reply. Harry shrugged to himself and reached for the scrambled eggs.

The falling snow outside clung to their cheeks and hair. The skies, where they weren't obscured by clouds, were bleak and grey. Everyone was bundled up and shivering.

Hogsmeade was picture-perfect, all of its rooftops blanketed in a generous amount of snow. Tracks from hundreds of feet crossed each other in the powdered streets. As was expected, the Three Broomsticks was teeming with witches and wizards desperate to get out of the cold. Madam Rosmerta fought to keep up with the many orders flowing in from throughout the pub.

Harry and Hermione were just turning to leave (clearly, every table in the place was occupied) when they saw Draco Malfoy leave his corner table, glass of butterbeer still half-full, and slip outside through the barely-visible backdoor. Instantly, Harry was surging forward.

"Harry, what are you doing?" came Hermione's exasperated voice.

He elbowed past some fourth years. "Malfoy must be up to something. Why would he use the backdoor instead of the front? This smells rotten to me."

"Oh, look, he left his table open ― can't we just sit down?"

"No!" He reached Malfoy's abandoned table. "You can stay here if you want, but I want to follow him."

She told him she'd watch the table while he went off being an idiot. He ignored the comment, shouldered open the backdoor, and instantly felt the touch of snowflakes on his exposed cheeks. He crossed the small lot behind the pub and followed Malfoy's footprints into the forest that hugged the east side of the village.

After some time, he came to a stream. It was almost completely frozen over. A thin sheet of ice covered the water, cracked in places and missing chunks of white. The trees overhead dusted the stream with snow that had filtered down from the clouds and through the branches. An unassuming wooden bridge spanned the two yards between the banks. Harry drew his wand, as he could now hear Malfoy walking just out of sight, and crept across the wooden slats.

His foot had very nearly touched the snow on the other side when the wooden boards creaked and alerted the Slytherin up ahead. Malfoy whirled and the speck of his black cloak grew; Harry searched for an escape route, and, finding none, decided to act as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Malfoy approached and scowled when he recognized Harry. "If it isn't Potter. I should have known it was you."

"You knew I was following you?"

The pale boy rolled his eyes. "You're not exactly a master of stealth, Potter. Why don't you tell me why you're here _before _I curse you?"

Harry now noticed that Malfoy had his wand in one hand, his broom in the other, and a rucksack on his back. He must have picked up the broom and the bag before he'd entered the forest.

"Going somewhere, Malfoy?" Harry raised his wand slightly.

"That's none of your business, Potter! _Ugh! _Everything's ruined now because of you, you prat!"

Harry was lost. "What are you talking about?"

Malfoy's wand was twirling before Harry even thought to react. _"Reducto!" _the boy roared. The spell whizzed to Harry's feet and blasted apart the boards there, establishing huge fissures in the wood. Harry's weight was too much; he crashed through the splintering structure and threw a hand out to grab the metal guard rail.

He hissed a pained breath as the lower half of his body was submerged in the frigid stream. He had never been so cold in his life; tremors rocked his legs. The stream was deeper than he'd thought. His feet kicked hopelessly for purchase, unsuccessfully. Only his shaking hand on the side of the tiny bridge kept him from falling.

Malfoy was unaffected. "If you must know, I'm leaving. I'm fed up with this wretched place. With everything."

Harry had no words, only glared silently. The Slytherin continued. "I would just kill you now, but if the Dark Lord found out, I'd be headed in the same direction."

"Are you just going to leave me here?" gasped Harry.

"Yes, actually." Malfoy tapped his wand against his cheek thoughtfully. "I think I'm forgetting something. Oh, now I recall. _Obliviate!_"

* * *

><p>Harry Potter was discovered by none other than Roger Davies and Cho Chang. The couple had snuck into the woods to fool around, alone, when they came to a point of the stream some twenty yards away from the wrecked bridge. There, washed up on the bank, was an unconscious and blue-lipped boy.<p>

The professors were notified; Davies carried Harry's sopping form back to the village. He was rushed to the castle by Hagrid.

Professor Sprout unearthed the bridge and pieced together the generally accepted story, which went something like this: Mr. Potter had been strolling through the woods and attempted to cross the bridge. Unable to support him, the bridge gave out. Along the way downstream, Potter hit his head on something and knocked himself out cold.

The generally accepted story was missing two key components: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.

No one knew Draco Malfoy had been present; Hermione herself couldn't prove it. It was very plausible that Harry had been tracking Malfoy through the woods and fallen through the bridge. But later that day, while Harry was lying in the hospital wing, she scoured the Marauder's Map for Malfoy's name. He was nowhere to be found.

This strengthened her belief that Malfoy had been involved. So, late in the day, she left Harry's bedside and climbed to the third floor, where the abandoned Defense Against the Dark Arts room was. It was exactly as she and Harry had left it. In the center of the floor was a transmutation circle, for emergency alchemy.

Hermione pulled the curtains shut over the tiny window in the door and stepped to the circle. She went about the slow process of gouging the appropriate symbols with minute detail, aware that the smallest mistake could kill her, destroy the room, or worse.

One of the most useful techniques she'd learned from her advanced books was the Tracking Transmutation. Difficult, but imperative to her success. As she assumed Malfoy hadn't placed any strong Secrecy Charms on himself, she was certain she could trace him. The key to the magic was owning something of the target, which happened to be his eagle-feathered quill. She'd nicked the quill some weeks before in case something like this happened.

The quill was placed in the center of the circle, and the tip of her wand touched the outermost edge. A red jolt of light traveled through the grooves in the stone floor. She murmured the incantation, lips humming with the enormity of the words. A static image began to form in the circle, grainy at first, and then clear.  
>It was none other than Draco Malfoy. He was on a broomstick, a rucksack on his shoulders, flying low over an immense grassy field. Hermione kept an eye out for any indicators towards his location. Soon, he zipped past a road sign that read Now Approaching the Town of Glenallachie. She remembered that the Hogwarts Express chugged close to this Scottish town on its way to the school; so Malfoy was possibly heading back to London.<p>

She had no guesses as to why the boy had run away from Hogwarts, or why he didn't think the professors could find him. If a fifth-year student like herself could do it so easily surely one of the experienced staff members could. Malfoy wasn't thinking straight, which was unlike him. He was a cunning weasel when it came down to it.

She did think Malfoy was now a prime suspect, however. He might have hexed Harry, panicked, and left, but that still didn't explain why he had a broom and rucksack in the first place. No, Malfoy had been planning on leaving all along. Harry had possibly gotten in the way of this. And he had paid the price for meddling.

Hermione gave up on deciphering his motives and figured the professors would realize he was gone on their own. It would be quite suspicious if she were the one to mention that Draco Malfoy wasn't on the grounds.

She returned to the Hospital Wing to find the Gryffindor Quidditch team surrounding their now-awake Seeker. "Harry!"

"I was wondering when you would show up," he said brightly. "I would really like to know why I'm in here."

"Have ― haven't they told you?"

Harry frowned. "They expect me to believe I went walking through the woods and fell into a creek, but I don't remember anything after we went into the Three Broomsticks."

Fred rolled his eyes at her, as if he'd been hearing this often. "He's been spewing this since he woke up."

"I'm not lying!" said Harry hotly. "I just know we were looking for a table and . . . and . . ." He grew a faraway look and lapsed into silence.

The doors opened across the ward. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall arrived, joined by Madame Pomfrey. Dumbledore wore a broad smile; Professor McGonagall's face was drawn; and the fretful school Healer merely fussed with the curtains. The aging Headmaster seated himself on the edge of the bed and patted Harry's shin jovially.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, I'm so glad you've decided to join us! You gave us quite a fright, quite a fright, yes, disappearing like you did, but what matters is that you're safe. Would you mind explaining why you went into the woods this morning?"

Harry's hands curled into fists. "I never went into any woods, and if I did, I certainly don't remember it ―"

Sensing another argument, Hermione asked the professors politely to speak with her by the door.

"Professors," she began in a near whisper, "I don't think Harry hit his head and lost his memory . . . I think it was tampered with. A Memory Charm."

Professor McGonagall countered with, "We see the head wound, Miss Granger, it makes much more sense than him being attacked ―"

"I've looked at the injury," she insisted. "It's barely bruised. Hardly severe enough to trigger amnesia."

Madame Pomfrey agreed. "She's right, Minerva. The boy would have needed to hit his head much harder for that. In fact, I'll release him as soon as he's ready."

Dumbledore spoke up. "Miss Granger's theory is well supported. As we know, Mr. Potter has many enemies inside and outside of Hogwarts. Perhaps Harry saw something he shouldn't have, and someone felt they needed to protect their secrets?"

"Albus, surely you don't believe he was Charmed ―"

"I will not rule it out as a possibility," Dumbledore declared. "Now all we need is some more information. Miss Granger, start at the beginning."

"Well, we went into the pub ― the Three Broomsticks ― and we saw Draco Malfoy leaving through the backdoor. Harry wanted to run after him, he refused to listen to me, so I sat down to wait for him and . . . you know the rest."

"Mr. Malfoy?" huffed Professor McGonagall. "Very well."

The Transfiguration Mistress flicked her wand; her Patronus, a silver tabby cat, appeared. She spoke to it. "Go to Professor Sinistra's office ―" (as the Astronomy Professor was filling in as the Slytherin Head of House for Snape, seeing as she was the only competent Slytherin professor on the grounds) ― "and have her bring Mr. Malfoy straight here."

Hermione bit her lip. This was a great waste of time, since Malfoy had fled, but she couldn't point out his absence without drawing attention to her illegal use of alchemy. It wasn't actually prohibited by law, but Professor McGonagall wouldn't be happy. She said nothing.

Some twenty minutes later, Professor Aurora Sinistra arrived. She was a dark-skinned and willowy woman, with flowing black hair and a slightly tilted hat embroidered with white stars. An air of regality accompanied her presence. "Mr. Malfoy is not in the dorms and, according to his House mates, has not been seen since this morning."

The shocking announcement wasn't very shocking to Hermione, but she worked to look surprised. Dumbledore's face remained grave. "Minerva, issue a warning to all the professors that Mr. Malfoy is to be found immediately."

She relayed the order to her Patronus; the cat sprang dutifully through a bar of afternoon sun and disappeared. Dumbledore continued, "The castle is now sealed until the boy is brought to me. No one goes in or out."

They didn't hear it, but far below, the many doors that led out onto the grounds all across the school shut themselves and locked tightly.

Dumbledore conjured his own Patronus, a luminescent phoenix. "Have Hagrid secure the gates and patrol the grounds, please." The phoenix soared through the open window.

"I will search Mr. Malfoy's room," said the Headmaster. "I suggest everyone keeps an eye out for our young escapee."

He swept from the room. While they waited for the old wizard's return, the Quidditch team and Hermione played wizard's chess on Harry's bed. George was the reigning champion by the time Dumbledore reappeared, a balled up piece of parchment in his hand. The students watched quietly.

"Minerva," he acknowledged his colleague, handing her the parchment. She read it and scowled.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"It is a letter to Mr. Malfoy," clarified Dumbledore. "There is another letter as well."

The second letter was not crumpled, but encased in a starched black envelope and written upon sheepskin parchment in ruby-red ink. Professor McGonagall dropped the first parchment to the bed to take this one. The observing students leaned forward and read the crumpled page. _Mother and I fled. Cannot say why. Stay near Dumbledore._

Overhead, Minerva McGonagall gasped sharply and dropped the formal letter in her hands as if it had become white-hot.

"From _him_?" the woman choked. "He was writing to the boy, Albus!"

Dumbledore merely nodded. The pair moved to the door to discuss the matter in quiet, urgent tones. Hands shaking, Hermione reached for the fallen letter.

_To Mr. Draco Malfoy,_

_ Hello. I believe we have met before, and I am certain we will meet again. You may or may not know by now that your parents have left the country. I apologize for their foolishness, but this blatant disloyalty to me and to my servants cannot be overlooked. If you would like to see your parents for a final time, I have a team in pursuit. They seem to see think I don't know they are searching for Lucius and Narcissa. Fortunately, I do. When they return, I may have to kill them, but it's all politics, I assure you. I would not want my other servants to think they may leave anytime they want. Please do not try to apprehend them or come after me or anyone else mentioned in this letter. I would hate to have to kill you. In fact, Draco, you are like a son to me; you have much potential to become a great wizard. Perhaps I will consider adopting you when you no longer have real parents; we'll have something in common then._

_Lord Voldemort_

The Gryffindor team also read the letter. Alicia broke into hysterical sputtering when she saw the name at the bottom, while the Weasley twins jumped back several feet and knocked over Angelina. Hermione could only stare numbly at the parchment. Harry's face was shadowed with anger and disgust.

They listened in on Dumbledore's conversation. "Minerva, the boy is clearly planning on rescuing Lucius and Narcissa. We must stop him."

"Should we summon the Order?"

"Immediately."

The professors took the letters and left, conversing tensely. The Gryffindor team said goodbye, but Hermione stayed by Harry's side. She always stayed.

"So Malfoy really did it?" Harry asked quietly.

She shifted in the chair beside his bed. "It looks that way, yes. We can't prove that he attacked you, because he seems to have erased your memory, but judging by those letters . . . I think Malfoy was under a lot of stress and was very confused, and he might not have meant to hurt you."

"Are you defending him?"

"No!" she snapped. "I dislike him as much as you, but can you imagine the greatest Dark wizard writing to say he was going to kill your mother and father?"

He glared at the wall. "I can, actually."

She mentally kicked herself for comparing Malfoy's situation to Harry's, and tried to smooth over the rough patch. "Er, anyway, Madame Pomfrey said you're welcome to leave whenever you like."

He threw the blankets off. "Right now sounds fine. Can we go to the library?"

"The library?" she repeated, shocked but eager. "Alright, of course, but why?"

"I want to look into breaking a Memory Charm."

She sighed morosely. "Harry, the only way to break a Memory Charm is through intense physical or emotional torture. Do you really want to go through that for something like this?"

"No, I suppose not." He picked up his clothes, folded neatly on the nightstand. "Do you mind . . . ?"

Face red, she stammered, "No, no!" and backed into the center of the ward. He yanked the curtains around his bed space closed and changed into his original garb. When he emerged, he said, "I've changed my mind. I think we should go to Great Hall."

"The Great Hall? What for?"

He looked at her oddly. "Dinner, of course. What did you think I wanted to do in there?"

* * *

><p>As the sun led the blue of the skies away and left dusk in its wake, many interesting events transpired:<p>

Draco Malfoy set course for Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger each received mysterious letters that neither told the other about.

Rubeus Hagrid discovered the remains of a hippogriff in the Forbidden Forest, blood drained from its body.

The Order of the Phoenix converged at Hogwarts.

Albus Dumbledore contacted an extremely secretive and extremely powerful organization.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger were murdered in their home.

* * *

><p><em>Draco angled the broomstick high into the bleeding sky, mentally prepared to enter the Death Eater headquarters. He had to do it. Mother and Father were counting on him; for all he knew, they were already inside and being tortured mercilessly. He steeled himself and plunged into a screaming dive.<em>

_He was well aware that he was riding to his own death, and that he could do probably nothing to prevent his parents' slaughter. But he couldn't stay at school and do nothing. He had to act. He had to put forth some effort to protect his life, past, present and future._

* * *

><p><em>There was a note in a bland white envelope on Harry's pillow that night. There was no sender, no return address, only his name scribbled in plain black ink. He opened with care, wary of surprises, but only found a simple letter that read:<em>

Hogwarts is the last safe place. Chaos will surround the castle and only the Boy of Mixed Blood and the Girl of Heaven-Sent Blood will be able to retain Order.

* * *

><p><em>There was a note in a bland white envelope on Hermione's pillow that night. There was no sender, no return address, only her name scribbled in plain black ink. She opened with care, wary of surprises, but only found a simple letter that read:<em>

The Boy of Mixed Blood will battle the Boy of Hellish Blood and the Dark Sorcerer. The Girl of Heaven-Sent Blood will battle the Dark Sorceress. The victors will either defend or destroy Britain.

* * *

><p><em>Hagrid smelled the rot of the carcass first, then crashed into the clearing and saw the maimed hippogriff's remains. It throat had been torn open. The stomach also had a large tear in it, allowing the creature's entrails to spill out onto the soft grass. Not a drop of blood could be seen. <em>

* * *

><p><em>The Order met in the secret room on the seventh floor. They began at dusk and argued late into the night, and by the time the members dispersed, they had come to the conclusion that Draco Malfoy was as good as dead and the most they could do was hope the Dark Lord spared him.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Albus Dumbledore's letter to the Clan contained three words:<em>

It has begun.

* * *

><p><em>Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange let Antonin Dolohov cast the Dark Mark in the sky above the Granger household, as they were still cleaning the blood from their robes. Mudblood was the hardest to scrub away. <em>


	12. The Calm Before the Storm

**Hello, lovelies! **

Minerva McGonagall was with Albus Dumbledore when the falcon soared through the window, deposited an envelope, and left just as suddenly. Dumbledore picked up the delivery and read it. He silently handed it to her to see as well, and it simply said, _The Clan will fight by your side._

"Who are they?" she asked, seating herself in an armchair by the Headmaster's fireplace. Dumbledore also sat down.

"The Clan has existed since the early eighteen hundreds," he began. "They are comprised entirely of unregistered Animagi. They are a seamless fighting force, but extremely secretive."

Minerva digested this. "Who knows about them?"

"At this point? Only the two of us and the Clan itself."

"How many are there?"

"Eleven. All wizards. I have a list of their animal forms somewhere . . . ," he said, brandishing his wand and Summoning a roll of parchment. "Ah, here it is."

She accepted the scroll. The Clan had one wolf, one hawk, one elk, one panther, one boar, one tarantula, two owls, one black bear, one bat, and one falcon. "These are mostly common animals. Clearly, they are equipped for secrecy."

"Quite," agreed Dumbledore. "They have mastered the art of the transformation. Changing between dueling as humans and battling as animals comes to them easily."

"Albus." Her expression became guarded. "How much time do we have until . . . ?"

"Very little," the aged wizard sighed. "He grows stronger by the day. I had wanted Mr. Potter to complete his sixth year before I troubled him, but I will have to begin his instruction sooner than I'd hoped."

Minerva conjured a platter laden with tea and scooped a lump of sugar into a glass. "What will you tell the boy?"

"There is so much he needs to know about our foe . . . I am ashamed of myself. I should have trusted him with this information far sooner, but alas, I have shielded him for too long." He set his teacup down. "He needs to learn the truth about Lord Voldemort's condition before we can expect a victory."

"Truth?"

Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap and watched the flames crackle before answering. "Lord Voldemort has come into the possession of a hellish power, something we do not fully understand. I fear that he will become too strong. The boy has no chance of defeating him in battle in his current state.

"However, I hope to send spies, to discover the secret behind Voldemort's strength. He will attack soon. We must be prepared, lest we lose this war."

Harry was quite unsettled by the mysterious note he'd found before bed, but because he didn't want to ruin his holiday any more than it was already, he didn't mention it to Hermione. He decided to just enjoy the decorations he had slaved over and the fantastic meals the kitchens' house-elves created. He was especially impressed by their puddings, which tasted better than ever.

Very few students had signed to stay over the winter holidays; only a handful from each house. The twins and Ron were the only Weasleys who had remained, mostly because the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team was forced to stay by Angelina (lucky Ginny had been let off the hook, as she was a back-up player). Ravenclaw had crushed Hufflepuff in the last match. Unless they were beaten by Slytherin in February, the Eagles were the Gryffindors' real competition, and they were quite skilled. The Gryffindor Captain had demanded extensive practices over the break.

The first Tuesday of the holiday, the Gryffindors assembled on the pitch, and were shocked by a surprise appearance: Oliver Wood, on leave from the Puddlemere United reserve team. He was dressed in the Puddlemere United team's blue-and-gold Quidditch robes. His last name was stitched to the back of his garb, and his number, 27, was emblazoned on his chest. He had a new broomstick, a Nimbus Three Thousand, which the Gryffindors were quite impressed by.

"Harry!" Wood strode forward and shook Harry's hand. "How's our Seeker been doing? Winning games?"

"Yeah, we flattened Slytherin in November ― nice broom, by the way."

"Like it?" he asked, showing Harry the polished broomstick. It was made of very pale wood and had a bluish tinge to its branches. "The whole team was given them. Not as good as a Firebolt, but a definite improvement from our old Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones."

They all chatted about Quidditch-related things, like Puddlemere United's standings in the British and Irish Quidditch League and their chances at entering the tournament to win the European Cup. Wood was the second-string Keeper, but he often played in games because, he confided in his old teammates, their first-string Keeper was always drinking firewhiskey during practice and was likely to be booted from the team any day now.

Then they switched to Hogwarts talk. "What was the score at your last match?" Wood wanted to know.

Angelina proudly replied, "Two-hundred-forty to ten."

"Slytherin team has really declined," said Wood with a shake of his head. "They used to be our biggest threat! Who should we worry about this season?"

"At the moment, it's Ravenclaw. They'll definitely be going to the championship game if they beat Slytherin the way they did Hufflepuff, but who knows?" said George. "Slytherin's cheating might hit them harder than it hit us. In any case, thanks to your generous contribution, we're the best team, no contest."

"You're welcome," said Wood. "I want to make sure Gryffindor is the apex predator, even when I'm not playing here."

Wood presided over their practice that day, working them to the bone and falling back into his role as captain seamlessly. He made them do push-ups in the snow and pull-ups from the goal posts; the frigid metal seared their hands, even through the gloves. He gave Ron pointers, but by the end of the practice, he confirmed that the youngest Weasley son was a fine Keeper.

The whole team trooped up to the castle at lunch time, except for Katie, who stayed behind to talk to Wood.

"Oh, look at the little lovebirds," Fred said dreamily.

George added, "Soon enough they'll be snogging behind the stands, just you wait ―"

The Gryffindors stuffed themselves in the Great Hall, starving after the demanding practice. Oliver and Katie appeared halfway through the lunch hour, cheeks flushed, and "not from the cold," as Angelina put it.

Harry was just reaching for some treacle tart when the note on his pillow came back to the forefront of his mind, and instantly, he was preoccupied. Who had sent it? Who were the ones mentioned in the letter? He fretted over the matter until Fred and George invited him to play Gobstones with them in the clock tower's courtyard.

When they stepped out into the courtyard, the most eye-catching piece of the area was the clock tower, which ticked high overhead. The hands of the clock were made of a shining black stone; the clock's face was gleaming white marble. The inside of the grey-stone tower housed five flights of wooden stairs that stopped on the uppermost floor. From there, the gears of the giant clock were visible, and a set of bells nearby were charmed to ring at noon.

The clock tower's courtyard was enchanted; all of the falling snow rerouted itself midair and piled on the stone walls that penned in the courtyard. The twins and Harry engaged in a miniature tournament, with Harry and Fred tied for the win. The twins left soon after ("We've got to take care of some things, the holidays are prime for mischief, must be prepared, we're sure you understand, be seeing you, then, have a nice day," George had said lavishly as the pair walked back the way they'd come). Harry, on a whim, entered the tower and climbed to the top story.

Weak winter sunlight filtered through the thin marble of the clock face and the silently revolving gears, throwing odd patterns onto the wooden floor. Harry tapped one of the bells and sat down on the floor of the dimly lit room. He thought it was a wonderful place to think, something he desperately needed to do. Harry's mind switched between dissecting Malfoy's situation and the note he'd found.

He heard light footsteps on the stairs. "Hello, Harry!" said Hermione brightly, accompanied by a sour-faced Crookshanks and Hedwig. The snowy owl immediately left her shoulder and flapped loudly in the quiet space to perch on its master's arm. The calm dissipated instantly, but Harry didn't mind; the distraction was welcome.

"Hullo," he answered, still on autopilot. "How'd you know I was here?"

She let a sheet of parchment waft into his lap. It was the Marauder's Map, oddly empty due to the decrease in students. On the clock tower, their names had appeared, a sliver of space between the "Harry" dot and the "Hermione" dot. He studied it further; all of the teachers were in their offices, except for Hagrid, who was moving along the fringe of the Forbidden Forest. A handful of students milled around common rooms, corridors, and the Great Hall.

Hermione promptly sat down and began to read from a book she'd brought, Crookshanks curled against her hip. Harry stroked Hedwig's head contentedly. It was absolutely amazing how calm and peaceful two orphaned children could be, sitting among the gears of a massive clock, on a snowy day, two days before Christmas, especially when one child didn't know she was orphaned at all.

The messenger sent to Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Dolohov from the Dark Lord was the son of an older Death Eater. He couldn't have been older than twenty. A healthy mixture of fear and respect had been instilled him, because though the trio of escapees were likely to be stripped of rank upon their homecoming, he addressed them like the lieutenants they were.

The young man found them outside of an English town. He flagged them down from his broomstick, took off his mask, and bowed so low he nearly tipped from the broom. It was past midnight.

"Lord and Lady Lestrange, Lord Dolohov," he gasped out, afraid of reprimand. "The D-dark Lord o-orders you t-to return to Grimmauld Place i-immediately."

He cowered, expecting a Cruciatus. He received. Bellatrix, furious with her sticky situation, cast the Unforgivable on the man, not caring that he was just the messenger. Once he was writhing with pain on the pavement, the Lestranges and Dolohov Disapparated. Back to Number 12.

They were ushered inside by gravely serious Death Eaters of lower rank, the hallways unlit and cold. At each floor, a different pair of Death Eaters would guide them. The last stop was the door to the Dark Lord's chambers. It opened, apparently all by itself, to admit them.

The dark chamber was illuminated by a single rectangle of moonlight. The bar of light arched through the half-curtained window, ghosted across the wooden floor, and came to rest on a pair of once-immaculate leather shoes and the hem of a torn robe. The new arrivals' eyes followed the ripped cloth up to a pair of knees and a large chest. They reluctantly met the frantic grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy, long blonde hair disheveled, travelling cloak discarded, hands bound.

Bellatrix could sense the anger of the Dark Lord before he slithered out of the shadows into their vision. He was furious, but he wore a tranquil façade.

"Bella, Rodolphus, Dolohov. How kind of you to join us," he said through slightly pointed teeth. His red eyes flashed in the darkness. "I was just asking Lucius here to share with us where his wife is; his son joined the party, after all."

The chandelier overhead lit with a hundred flickering blue flames, just enough to brighten the room and reveal a still and silent Draco Malfoy. His hands and feet were not bound. He was immobilized by some magic, for even his chest didn't rise and fall. Only the nervous sweat trickling down his temples proved he was alive.

The Dark Lord continued as though nothing had happened. "The guest list is filling up now that you three have arrived. What appalls me is that you honestly thought I didn't know you were gone. Of course I knew, you fools!" The façade cracked, shifted, gave way to the real fury underneath. "Everything that happens within these walls happens because I _allow _them to!"

"No disrespect was meant, my Lord," simpered Dolohov, kneeling and bowing his head. "We only wanted to return your servants to you ―"

"Fool!" the Dark Lord spat. "I care not for servants that are disloyal. And by leaving without my express permission, it seems you three are also disloyal. Just what shall I do with you?"

"Please, my Lord," said Rodolphus, "we had tried to service you by killing the girl ―" Suddenly, he realized that the trio had been unsuccessful in this gesture and fell silent.

"The Mudblood?" The Dark Lord bared his teeth. "Yes, you infidels couldn't even properly _off_ a sixteen-year-old girl, we are aware. By killing the Muggles and casting the Dark Mark, you brought unneeded attention to us. Your faults grow greater."

Bellatrix wondered if the pride the Dark Lord had in her ― pride which she had worked years to instill ― was being erased by her foolish actions. She should have left Narcissa and her idiot of a husband to face the fate that awaited them, but she went against the will of the wizard who gave her purpose instead.

"My Lord, I beg you," rasped Lucius. Judging by the occasional tremors and the notes of weariness and pain in his voice, he'd been there for quite a while. "I give you my life for my son's, just let him go free ―"

"Free?" The word twisted on the Dark Lord's tongue. "Free, when he fell so willingly into my domain? No, my dear Lucius. Your boy serves many purposes. He is leverage ― one threat to Narcissa and she will come charging to his rescue, just as he came to your rescue. How ironic. But Draco is also a fine young wizard, only waiting for someone to teach him. Oh, Lucius, you've done a commendable job so far, but Draco is weak. He needs the hand of someone strong to guide him. I am strong."

Lucius strained against his bindings. "Please! He is my only beloved son; I cannot allow him to . . ."

"To what? Your boy will be in capable hands. You all know how great a caretaker I can be, when my servants are grateful and obedient.

"Unfortunately, often times, they are not."

He turned to face Dolohov and the Lestranges again. "I do not wish to kill you. Bellatrix, my finest lieutenant, and Rodolphus and Dolohov, long-standing friends: I know that you were blinded by confusion, loyal to me and loyal to family. But you will come to see soon that I am the most important person to you in this world."

He sighed, tiring of the proceedings. "You must be punished, I'm afraid. You will live, and you will maintain your standing in my forces, but I cannot call myself a fair and just leader if I do not show the others what they will receive for disobedience."

He raised his wand and Bellatrix was engulfed in an inescapable, all-encompassing firestorm of agony.

She awoke on the ground some time later, and saw Rodolphus and Dolohov still under the Dark Lord's curse. It slightly comforted her to know she had been spared an elongated period of torture. She smiled as she sank into unconsciousness.

The article published in the _Oxfordshire Press _was only a short snippet, but contained a black-and-white picture of a skull with a snake protruding from its jaws. The headline was:

**STRANGE MARK APPEARS OVER **

**SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD; **

**POLICE TO INVESTIGATE**

Perhaps, if the Muggle policemen had come sooner, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Granger wouldn't have started to smell.

Harry was awoken on Christmas morning by Crookshanks, who pawed at Harry's face until the boy put on his glasses and rolled out of bed.

"You're doing Hermione's bidding, aren't you, cat?" he grumbled at the orange fluff-ball, opening the dormitory to allow Crookshanks passage. Harry felt awkward about spending Christmas without waking Ron, so he shook the snoring ginger awake and escaped to the stairs.

Fred and George were hanging celebratory mistletoe over every inch of the common room's ceiling, but before Harry was forced to kiss anyone, Professor McGonagall arrived and Vanished the plants. She wished them all a happy Christmas and left. The common room, as per usual, had three towering Christmas trees dispersed across the floor space; Hermione and the Gryffindor Quidditch team were crowded around one tree. The other two were attended to by a handful of first years on one and several fourth years on the other.

Oliver Wood stopped by and took up position as a leader by passing out presents to the patient (if not tired) Gryffindors. Harry received a pad of sticky notes from the Dursleys, which he actually thought might be useful for schoolwork. Molly Weasley sent a red sweater with a golden lion on it and a tin of chocolates. Hagrid had made a particularly abundant batch of rock-cakes and split them evenly between Harry, Ron, and Hermione, which led Harry to believe the groundskeeper didn't realize he and Ron weren't speaking.

Ron silently handed him a package, and Harry was fervently glad he'd decided to buy Ron something at Hogsmeade (before the disaster with Malfoy, of course). It wasn't much. He'd found the Chudley Cannons wristwatch at Spintwitches and immediately thought of Ron. The band was black and the face of the watch was orange, while the hands were cannons that fired cannonballs on every hour. The cannonballs spun in a dizzying orbit around the edge of the watch for a few minutes before settling into the cannons again.

Ron was struck speechless by the thoughtful gift. Hermione had a knowing smile on her face, which irritated Harry as he opened the package Sirius had left. It looked like a book of matches. In fact, it _was_ a book of matches, but they were enchanted matches that burned brighter than a bonfire and could only be put out by the person who lit them. Harry tucked them away carefully and reminded himself to go visit Sirius later.

Hermione had purchased wand sheaths for Harry, Ron, and herself. The sheaths buckled at the wrist and just above the elbow, and connecting these two bands was a strip of leather. The strip had small, indestructible bands that the wand could be slid into. The contraption was thin enough to be easily hidden beneath a shirt sleeve. Even Ron broke his no-talking policy and shouted a grateful "Bloody hell!" as he hurried to strap the sheath to his left arm.

Harry, not sure, had simply renewed her subscription to the _Daily Prophet_. He'd scoured Hogsmeade for something more sentimental, like the gift he'd given Ron, but all he considered was a stack of books from Tomes and Scrolls. (Actually, he'd gone so far as to pick out several large books from the shop, and had been going to the register to check out when Hermione saw him and encouraged him to buy them because she'd read _every single one _and thought they were all wonderful reads. Harry lied and told her they'd been thrown on the floor, and he was just giving them to the shopkeeper so they could be restocked properly.)

(Hermione absolutely loved his gift, but he was pretty sure she'd have graciously accepted just about anything from anyone, because she was a genuinely good person, something he was finding less and less these days.)

Breakfast was delivered to the common room, and the Gryffindors enjoyed a small feast on the floor by the Christmas tree. They spent the morning in the tower. The sound of Exploding Snap cards bursting into ashes and wrapping paper being stepped on filled the air, along with the happy laughter of children who, at that moment anyway, didn't fear Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange or Lucius Malfoy.

Lunch in the Great Hall was short, since the students were saving room for the extravagant Christmas dinner held every year. All of the professors, students, and staff sat together at the one table. Harry was anticipating this celebratory event and barely touched his food.

That afternoon, the Gryffindors roamed the grounds and had a massive snowball fight on the lawn. Harry's team, which was made up of Ron, George, Hermione, and Angelina, was trailing behind the team of Oliver, Katie, Fred, and Alicia, until Hagrid came to their aid: the half-giant launched mounds upon mounds of snow at the opposing team and literally buried them. They forfeited.

They spent the remaining time before dinner drinking hot chocolate the house-elves had brought. The common room was cozy and dim, lit by the fire only, as whirlpool of a blizzard had rolled in unexpectedly, blacking out the windows with flurries of snow. Harry blissfully drank from his mug and warmed himself by the hearth.

As was expected, the Christmas dinner was wonderful. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, between Professors McGonagall and Flitwick. He stood and gave a short speech when everyone was seated.

"To those of you who celebrate it, I say, happy Christmas! To those of you who don't, happy holidays! I am inclined to believe all seated at this table are desperately in need of cheerfulness, so from this point forward, I ban grumpiness, frowns, scowls, and huffs from the room. Please take care of any unhappiness outside if necessary."

The assembly laughed at his silly address and watched the silver holiday platters fill up with food. Until late that evening, the gathered Hogwarts residents ate and laughed. It was one of those few completely happy times in Harry's life.

Dawlish and Savage were the Aurors chosen to investigate the Dark Mark's appearance in Oxfordshire, which was expected. There were only two Aurors who ranked higher than them ― the Head of Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was next in line for Head of Office. However, Scrimgeour and Kingsley were usually busy running the department; it came to men like Dawlish and Savage to go out into the field.

They arrived at the suburban home past eleven, in the hopes that the Muggle policemen would be gone. They weren't; some men dressed in suits had set up high-tech telescopes on the lawn of the house and were peering at the sky, where a smoky outline of the Mark was still visible. More officers patrolled the sidewalk and blockaded the street. Several more policemen came through the front door of the home with two stretchers, sheets pulled over the bodies on them.

Dawlish nudged Savage towards the men. The officers saw them approach and immediately asked for identification.

The two Aurors produced fake I.D.s; John Dawlish was now Edgar Williamson of the Serious Organised Crime Agency.

"Mr. Williamson," the leader of the officers, a short, stocky man, said, shaking hands. "You can call me Mr. Kincaid. I had hoped the SOCA wouldn't need to be involved, but it's clear those hopes are dead."

"What do we have here?" asked Savage, masquerading as a Mr. Daniel P. Greensville.

"Double homicide inside the house," said Kincaid. "We've got identification as well ― they're Dr. Warren Granger and Dr. Beatrice Granger. Both dentists, would you believe it?"

The name "Granger" nagged at Dawlish. "What else?"

"They've got a kid, sixteen-year-old girl, she goes to some boarding school in Scotland . . ."

Dawlish was almost positive the girl he was referring to was at Hogwarts, he was certain he'd read a report or two with her name in it. He glanced at his partner; Savage also seemed to recognize the name. He frowned. Muggle-borns who were orphaned had to go about the nasty process of erasing themselves from Muggle records if they didn't have other family members, especially when they were underage.

Kincaid let them see the dentists before they were loaded onto an ambulance to be taken to the police headquarters. The chest of the man was horribly disfigured ― Dawlish sensed the Dark Magic that had been used to inflict the wounds. The woman's throat was cut, her neck and chin coated in dry blood.

Dawlish and Savage stepped aside to discuss what they'd found and what they'd inevitably have to write in their report later. "Dark wizards came here and killed two Muggles," said Dawlish, piecing together fact. "They cast the Dark Mark, which meant they were Death Eaters. And why would Death Eaters care to go after the parents of a Hogwarts student?"

"You're sure she's a witch?"

"Why else would Death Eaters kill her parents?"


End file.
